#he’s still figuring out his own fashion sense

[aestheticallynotdeerlightful]

THIS JUST IN: WORLDS SNAZZIEST 10 YEAR OLD

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Please do not use or repost my works anywhere without explicit permission from me first, thank you <3)

[tobiasdrake]

I really do love how much you can tell about Doomguy just from looking around his room.

Like. Yeah, all the stuff you expect to see is there.

He's got his big ol' gun rack.

What appears to be a rock he uses as a punching bag.

Whetstone for sharpening his knives. All the Real Manly Violence Man stuff you'd think would be there.

But also a pair of nunchaku. Doomguy has never used nunchaku in any of his games. Those are just there because apparently he's the kind of dork who likes to play around with nunchaku and pretend he's doing kung fu.

Also a jump rope. Gotta keep his cardio up for all that running and jumping he has to do.

He reads Guns & Bullets magazine, but he also reads Science Monthly. Which makes sense that he'd be a bit of a techie since....

...he seems to have made his new Praetor Suit by disassembling the old one and rebuilding it to be higher-quality. You can see from the guts of the suit that it's powered armor, and he just... knows how to work that.

He's mad. Not stupid.

He also reads cooking magazines, of course. His only friend is Doom J.A.R.V.I.S.; He's gotta be self-sufficient. Though how he got those pizzas delivered is certainly beyond me.

And, of course, he has a collection of regular books that he likes to read as well. Though his taste in literature reveals a certain trend.

Also, he reads comics.

So many comics.

So, so many comics that he's left discarded comics lying around on his munitions cases. This man is a nerd.

And if you doubt his nerd cred, remember that he even keeps collectible toy displays. Doomguy is explicitly the kind of person who will go out of his way in a firefight with the forces of Hell itself to go snatch up a new toy for his collection.

He even has collectible toy figures hanging out on his computer desk. He put a little hard hat on one of them.

On the other side of his desk, he's got some leftover pizza from the inexplicable delivery service, plus takoyaki flavor chips and some candy. It seems Doomguy is a fruity candy kind of guy, not a chocolate guy. Man after my own heart.

Oh, you know he has shredded every single surface of the Fortress of Doom at some point. How do you think he learned to react so quickly in combat?

That is, of course....

When he's not ROCKING OUT with one of his three separate guitars. I bet the middle one's his favorite. It has a place of honor under the giant demon skull.

Some people might say that a record player and casette tapes are old-fashioned but cut him some slack; He's a Gen X-er.

Of course, there's one thing that any walk through Doomguy's room reveals more than anything else. The one thing that matters more than the world to him. The thing that drives him in his every waking moment.

He loved his bunny rabbit. My favorite thing about the portrait - Well, my favorite thing about it is that it's a piece of fanart that got officially canonized, but aside from that - is that he's wearing his Praetor Suit in it.

That's not something he brought from home. He commissioned an artist to paint that after becoming a Night Sentinel. He still loves his poor, late bunny rabbit.

And he keeps her close to him when he's home.

[diz-eaze]

thinking about the intimacy of visions,,,, and visions with yans in general.

; includes; childe, escoffier, sethos, xilonen, diluc, arlecchino, albedo, emilie, wanderer, ifa, & shenhe.

; yandere, yandere themes, some of them being freaks per usual, unhealthy relationships, minor suggestive content for some, mentions of captivity for a few, not proofread i both rushed and wrote this in one go.

childe exchanges his hydro vision with your vision before engaging in combat. of course, his element doesn't change: it's still his water blades that glide through the enemies' skin as if mere butter, but there's romance to be found in their last moments, being the vision situated on his belt, glinting its eerie glow at them in farewell. a sense of pride sprouts from the recesses of his chest, stemming from his beating heart as he thinks of your vision as a form of reaper that sends off their souls to the afterlife. should your vision be stained by their blood, then childe will dutifully take on the task of wiping it clean, not stopping until he greets himself in its reflection. he takes great care of your vision, seeing as it was his idea in the first place, yet he hopes that you also take care of his in a similar way.

escoffier finds your vision out of pure coincidence. she finds it haphazardly lying on the ground floor of hotel debord, disconnected from its usual place on your thigh strap. it's only logical to assume that you lost it and haven't a clue, so in an act of kindness, escoffier bends down to pick up the dainty thing. once in her grasp, she twists and turns it around to inspect as she walks back to her kitchen. yet in her palm, the sight of your vision flows into her psyche, poisoning her mind with debaucherous thoughts of what she can do right now. it's not right, that she knows, yet temptation runs deep when she thinks about how your vision is so often strapped to your thigh.... with a bite of her lip, escoffier retreats to the very back of the kitchen, where her sins are unknown to all but herself. her tongue peeks out from between her lips, she nears your vision to the base of her mouth, and she licks it from bottom to top, all while feeling the cold metal of its casing.

sethos uses your vision as a bargaining chip, holding it high above your head as he waves it back and forth in taunt, saying that you have to do this and that for him in order to get it back. once back in your grasp, he'll challenge you to a 'friendly spar' to keep your senses sharp, or so he says. but even with the ba fragment gone from him, his strength is still commendable, as he has no qualms with defeating you even with your vision. you always feel like a sore loser afterwards, too, and he'd be there to wriggle into your side as he coos out comfort and compliments, half-baked they may be. should you permanently let go of your vision, and refuse to take it back from him, you'll find yourself in a similar standing to those shogunate soldiers who went mindless after their visions were ceased - sethos retells you this tale whenever you're being a tad bit too bratty with him.

xilonen, in classic artisan fashion, forges customized accessories specially tailored for your vision, all under your behest and wishes. she'll yawn and roll her eyes at the request, yet less than a day later, you'll find her holding out the newly crafted item in front of your jaw-slacked figure. you'll laugh and thank her, excitedly attaching the charm to the bottom of your vision, completely missing the phlogiston engraving she had embedded in. it's nothing new, really, this is how she's always done your vision accessory requests for ages, and you've remained blissfully unaware in your own euphoric joy. she may not personally seek you out to follow around natlan, but through feeling your steps and location from the phlogiston alone, is enough to satisfy her.

diluc, for all his morally questionable actions, longingly encases your vision between his fingers as he drifts to slumber every night. since you're not quite ready to share a bed with him just yet, he settles his perpetual yearning by sleeping with your vision under your reluctant acceptance. the constant glow it radiates often causes him to envision that it's you by his side, sleeping soundly with your body fitting into his like gears clicking into place, yet reality often disappoints when he opens his eyes to empty space and the vision still in his hand. beggars can't be choosers, still, his longing is starting to seep through the bottle supposed to contain it, and it's only a matter of time before he tires of the glass orb and instead breaches the topic of sleeping together once more over dinner.

arlecchino persistently insists on giving you her pyro vision as a protection charm, seeing as you lack the means of one. her innate power stemming from the balemoon curse is more than enough to protect her, even without the vision or her delusion. while it grants you no actual power, the meaning of arlecchino offering it up for your hands to grasp is clear; she will always be your protector. she herself will be your vision to wield, the power for you to use as you see fit. her vision, her curse, and her delusion are all yours, similar to the rest of her. offering up her vision is not a sign of submission, but that of sacrifice. arlecchino lays down the gift from the gods at your feet as a taste of the lengths she can and will go through for you.

albedo is intrigued enough to research the complexities of visions. it's within his nature as a researcher and alchemist to probe into the mysteries that plague teyvat, and visions are no exception to this. however, rather than using his own vision as his test subject, he uses yours instead. it's a multi-faceted reason; he sees you more often, he gets to touch an item you often touch, he learns more about visions, and he learns more about you. as far as he's concerned, studying up on visions is a goldmine of opportunities and interactions with you, and he's not willing to pass up on such an offer anytime soon. he'll study you under the microscope, no different from studying your vision.

emilie, during the times she's forced into combat, greatly prefers to stick to one elemental reaction. her dendro vision glows brightly as she channels her innate power into fruition, yet she'll look behind her to see if you've already applied pyro to the surrounding area of the enemies before making her move. burning. it's the only reaction she ever creates during battle, even more so if with your pyro vision there to enable hers. frankly, nothing else gets her going more than this. in the aftermath of the battle, the horrendous smell of burnt fabric and smoke lingering in the air disturbs the romantic ambience she was going for, and so she creates floral scents from her dendro vision to mask the displeasing smell. like this, life is perfect - consisting of only you and her, nothing else. pyro may burn dendro into nothing more than ashes, yet with her dynamic with you, it seems as if the places have been switched despite all logic.

wanderer falls back into hideous habits, one specially gifted by his former self, most likely, in the form of keeping a captive in his temporary place on the outskirts of the main city. with your current situation in mind (and less than savory responses...), he's forced to attend classes and duties without your company. to remedy this, wanderer opts for settling your vision right next to his anemo one whenever he goes out. the clinking caused by the two visions constantly colliding into each other as he walks creates a cacophony of sounds that seems so euphoric to his ears. there is something so exhilarating about your vision being entwined with his. it causes a smile to itch on his lips, it leaves a pleasant tingle down his spine, and anticipation at the tips of his fingers as he counts down the seconds until he's able to see you once more. old habits die hard, though this specific habit is one he's not letting go of anytime soon. love has always been selfish in that regard.

ifa's anemo attacks strike harder and faster whenever you're around, evident by the constantly stronger teal color of the item at his back. some may assume that this is done on purpose to show off in your presence, yet what most fail to take into account is that ifa is unaware of this phenomenon that only you can cause. it's subconscious; his anemo bullets fire off with astounding speed, and he maneuvers through the air with a sense of expertise that's not even found in soaring qucusaurs. though, the truth behind his increased strength around you is caused by the intense feelings he experiences. his ardor simply cannot be contained within just his body, and is thus transferred into his vision, wherein his capabilities surpass what he's used to. feelings of madness is what propels ifa to greater heights, and while it seems idealistic at surface level, this illusion will fall apart once he's made aware of this and decides to utilize it against you. for a man of intellect, it'll only be a few days before truth dawns upon him.

shenhe firmly believes that her cryo vision only serves one purpose: that being to serve you. her cryo clone is created with the sole intention to protect you, while she fights enemies head-on without you ever having to lift a single finger. when visiting her during work, shenhe will protect you from the smoldering heat inside wanmin using her cryo to cool you off. should a single bead of sweat form on your face, a frown will appear on hers for hours to come. when you crave icy treats, she's two steps ahead by having already frozen them beforehand. it's comedic, even endearing, at how eager shenhe is to please you using the power bestowed upon her from the heavenly principles. yet the use of her cryo vision extends past helping you with trivial tasks and wants. it's especially useful when it comes to extermination, death caused by hypothermia rather than slaughter is considerably easier to clean up in the byproduct of such actions. in her belief, her cryo vision is nothing if it can't help or serve you.

[sunderwight]

Trying my hand at this one:

Shen Yuan transmigrates into a worm.

It's just a normal garden variety (heh) earthworm, not a special magical worm (yet), so initially he thinks this is gonna be a really short transmigration adventure indeed. But of course that would be boring, so he also manages to end up in the body of a worm who lives under one of those magical immortal fruit-bearing trees.

One of the fruit drops, Worm Yuan chows down, and he significantly upgrades his physical abilities, and senses, and gains a cultivation boost! Hooray!

Unfortunately it's not enough to fix that he's still a worm, but it's enough so that he has less to fear from getting hit by a random shovel or such. In the process of eating the fruit, he sees some disciples (come to gather the fruits, slacking somewhat since they even allowed a few to hit the dirt) and overhears enough of a conversation to figure out that he's transmigrated into a worm that lives in the PIDW setting. Specifically, on Qian Cao Peak!

Wow! How random and wild! Why a worm??? What god did he piss off in his past life for this?

Well anyway, it is what it is, and Shen Yuan decides that if he's gonna live a probably short and uneventful life as a worm, at least he wants to see his favorite character. So he inches his way in what he hopes is the general direction of Qing Jing Peak, course-correcting whenever he gathers that he's guessed wrong, hitching a ride on the occasional shoe or once even gripping the internal part of a wheel from an An Ding Peak carriage, until finally, he's leveled up his meager worm cultivation even more and has reached Qing Jing Peak!

As Worm Yuan continues to inch his way across the peak, he keeps just-barely missing Luo Binghe, until finally he comes across... not Binghe, but a recognizable item: a fake jade pendant!

Though lost initially on a tree branch, it must have fallen at some point, down to the ground where Worm Yuan stumbled upon it.

Mustering his strength, Worm Yuan manages to get the broken string of the fake jade around his little worm body, and then makes the herculean trek to the wood shed. Dodging bird attacks, hiding from other QJP disciples, and further upgrading his Worm Skills such as digging, inching, and oozing, until finally he reaches his destination and squeezes under the door.

Leading to the situation of an incredulous disciple Luo Binghe -- who had previously been tending to his bruises -- watching as a little worm climbs into the shed (normal, usually it's spiders but sometimes other bugs get inside) while dragging his long-lost most treasured item in what can only be described as a deliberate fashion (very not normal).

After ascertaining that Worm Yuan is not some cultivator's tool or shapeshifted creature, Luo Binghe decides to approach this situation in the only reasonable way, and offers the worm some scraps from his leftovers. Worm Yuan happily shares a meal with his favorite character, and things take off from there.

Somehow Luo Binghe finds himself learning more about cultivation by watching Worm Yuan than he has in all his attempts to figure out his manual or listen to his shixiongs on Qing Jing Peak so far. He watches Worm Yuan work up the spiritual energy to crack rocks and scale the wood shed walls, and deduces some methods for applying his own spiritual energy in similar ways. He finds it heartening to think that if even a little worm can learn to cultivate through what seems to be pure determination, then surely Binghe can make his situation work, too. He scrounges around and manages to gather up enough materials for a makeshift terrarium, so Worm Yuan can be safe and cozy by his side at night.

Of course, trials and tribulations never stop. At some point Ming Fan and his cronies find the terrarium and smash it. Binghe is inconsolable until he realizes that Worm Yuan got away (extra durable, after all!) and is wriggling back towards him in a reassuring fashion.

Worm Yuan's hero schedule is quite full, too! At some point he digs his way into a tunnel to the Lingxi caves and saves Liu Qingge, and in the midst of the demon invasion he manages to help Binghe at a vital moment by hardening his body and tripping his opponent. He rides in Binghe's pocket when Binghe goes to claim Zheng Yang, too, developing his cultivation throughout it all.

Unfortunately, kind of, Worm Yuan is also in Luo Binghe's pocket when he gets thrown into the Endless Abyss. Through the hardships of the Abyss, Worm Yuan consumes some unsavory things (the less said about the quality of worm food in the Abyss, the better) but manages to unlock rare worm cultivation upgrades, until finally he achieves his first transformation -- a gigantic Dune-esque mega worm!

The less said about the symbolism of a stallion protagonist accompanied constantly by a literal monster worm, the better, probably. But having the ability to tunnel through basically anything does make a lot of things easier, at least in terms of travel, and cuts years off of the Abyss trip. Binghe and Worm Yuan almost have fun, even, just tearing through the terrain and any foes stupid enough to get in Worm Yuan's path until they retrieve Xin Mo and bust out.

Then they get into the demon realms and that actually is just straight up mostly a good time. Worms like Shen Yuan are not common so at first he nearly always surprises Binghe's foes when he shows up to help with fights, and a lot of the time the demons involved don't even seem to realize, at first, that he's with Luo Binghe and isn't just some hellish calamity that's coincidentally also shown up! But word gets around pretty quick that the new Heavenly Demon on the scene has a giant worm companion (probably leading to some misconceptions of people who think it's Tianlang Jun returned and that someone's mistaken Zhuzhi Lang's snake form for a worm).

Once that happens, unfortunately, some demons start taking precautions. After the first time Worm Yuan gets poisoned and nearly perishes (saved by Binghe's blood in the nick of time), Luo Binghe stops letting him participate in fights. Which is just rude! Worm Yuan's not going to make the same mistake twice, duh! But Binghe just keeps holding him in reserve again and again until the fight with Mobei Jun, and then when Worm Yuan intervenes anyway (is it just him or does Mobei Jun seem to know a lot more about potential heavenly demon weaknesses than he did in PIDW...?) and gets partly frozen, Binghe goes berserk. For a while there Shen Yuan is worried he won't actually LET Mobei Jun surrender!

Thankfully though he does, and then Binghe settles into his properties and starts... building a giant-scale worm garden? What about the harem, Binghe? Like obviously it's nice and all, but shouldn't you be focused on housing for, y'know, your future wives?

Other factions in the demon realms clearly are wondering about the same thing, as the marriage alliance offers naturally start pouring in. The most vocal of these being Sha Hualing. Worm Yuan supposed that his Binghe is probably waiting to officially take his wives so that he can marry Ning Yingying first or something, but still, a little planning wouldn't go amiss. Though eventually Luo Binghe seems to get -- if anything -- fed up enough with the questions about his marriage prospects that he does start setting up for a wedding.

Worm Yuan is surprised and touched when he finds himself being fitted for a monster-worm sized amount of wedding regalia. So he can be included in Binghe's wedding procession? That's so sweet! He's not sure he understands the inclusion of a veil, though...?

Anyway. Yes. Binghe marries the worm.

[lostinlovingrevery]

HEYY VANNN 💗

I heard you wanted to talk about Logan and I gotchu 👀😉

So I was thinking about Logan and what his reaction would be to seeing you in something of his. And I know I’d steal all those mans shirts but what about something else to get a rise out of Logan?? Like going to bed in his boxers OR meeting up for a date night and you show up with wearing his favorite belt buckle he swore he lost with the tightest jeans you have on that you know will make him go feral. I feel each Logan variant has a different vibe so you can take item(s) of his and he sees you wearing that and it’s OVER 😏 I have thoughts for a few but would love to hear what you think!💞

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!! DAMI THIS IS BRILLIANT!!!

I absolutely LOVE this idea. the belt buckle is so cute!!! I feel like he would tug you forward with them- looping his finger around your belt, staring down at it before looking at you, and calling you a little thief <3

Thank you for sending this in!!! <3 <3, I hope you enjoy!!

Logan Variants Reacting to You Taking His Stuff!

(slightly smutty, fluffy, and slightly angsty stuff below!)

Trilogy Logan: He crossed his arms, taking in the sight before him.

His dogtags, sitting pretty right in the valley of your breasts.

He was showering, heard you come in for a second- didn't pay too much attention to that. Was half tempted to tell you to join him- but considering he was almost finished washing up, and the water was getting cold, hell just join you in bed instead.

When he climbed out- his dogtags that just happened to be taken off with his clothes for once when he showered was missing. He checked all over the bathroom- even stared in the mirror to make sure he didn't go insane and it was still around his neck, but found that it was not the case.

He swears he didn't take it off in the bedroom- but as he opened the door to step into yours and his shared room, the mystery was quickly solved.

You were leaning against the headboard, posed in a sensual position, a big smile stretched across your face as his eyes trailed over your nude figure. Finally landing on the dogtags. He could make out his name on them.

He dropped the towel, letting you see what he thought of your little trick- and your new sense of fashion as he walked towards the bed, kneeling onto the end of it- his member at full attention for you.

"Now, that's a good look for you sweetheart." He mumbles low as he leans over you, fingers coming up to trace over the tags.

"sure you don't want them back?" You teased.

"Nah, keep em. Let everyone know who you belong to."

Origins Logan: You stole, yet another one of his flannels.

He'd be irritated, if he could. Yet, they look better on you anyway.

Especially when you're walking around in nothing, but his flannels.

It happens at the most random of moments too. Usually he's home after a long day at work. He sheds his clothes off, changes into sweats and a clean t-shirt before settling down somewhere to read, relax, watch tv. You'll be off doing your own thing, he'll distinctly remember you wearing a pair of boot-cut jeans and a tank top.

Then suddenly you're walking past him, an hour later- not even socks or panties on you as his flannel practically swallows you. He used to say something about it, tease you, make a joke- but now he smirks, catches a glance of your ass, barely hidden by the hem, before returning to his newspaper.

Eventually you'll end up in his lap. He's frumping over the stolen cloth, and you'll make a sweet pout and tell him that it smells soooo good that you couldn't help it. Smells just like him.

"Yeah princess? That's why you like it so much?" He'll smile, his hands tucking underneath the flannel, brushing over your bare skin as his eyes wander down- admiring the way your chest is barely concealed from him. You bit your lip, and nodded. "Hm." He tipped his chin up to look at you. "Alright. Keep it on, but you'll have to do something for me."

Old Man Logan: "Darling? You seen my glasses-?"

He stopped when he finally spotted you in the kitchen- trying on the glasses that he'd been looking for, for the last 20 minutes. He hated the damn things, hated how old they made him feel. Perfect vision for nearly 200 years and now he needs them. Really?

The only thing that keeps him from smashing the damn things is you cooing in his ear about how cute he looks.

A small guilty look on your face as he crossed his arms, raising a brow at you, and you smiled. Your hands dropped to your side, leaving the glasses sitting on your face.

"Got a reason to be stealing my glasses, doll?" He asks, feigning annoyance- but he could never really be angry with you.

"I just wanted to see what it looked like with your glasses" You answer innocently.

"And?"

"You look fuzzy."

He smiles, looking down at the floor, before moving forward into the kitchen towards you. "Real cute sweetheart." He coos. Reaching up, he pulled the glasses off you. "There. Better?"

"Kinda."

You reached for his glasses, taking them from his hands, flipping them over and putting them on. It slips a bit on the bridge of his nose, and he tipped his chin down to look at you past them. You smiled.

"Now, it's better." You wrapped your arms around his waist. "So handsome."

"Mm." He tipped his chin up again. "I don't know doll, they did look nice on you."

Worst Wolverine: He was half asleep and barely noticed you had them on.

You went to shower, while he watched some old black and white movie on the tv in your shared bedroom. It was boring- and he had seen it before. Granted it was over 100 years ago- but he did see it, and he remembered not liking it then either.

So he started to fall asleep, eyes closed, arm stretched out across your side of the bed. He picked up the sound of the shower shutting off- always alert at what you're doing.

He began to fall deeper into slumber, knowing that you'll be by his side soon. He heard you come in, silence at first- before your quiet shuffling around the room continued. Drawers opening and shutting, and finally you're climbing in bed by his side.

He turned to spoon you, arms wrapping around you protectively. His hands, as usual began wandering over your form. Tracing along your figure- it was a comfort thing for him. A habit he's built over time with you, reassurance that you're still there- that you're okay.

His hands, as usual, moved downwards- where instead of your panties that he has become so familiar with- it was a different fabric.

"Babe." His brows creased together, eyes still shut as his hand continued to investigate what was on your bottom half. "Are these mine?" He finally asks, pinching the fabric between his fingers.

Quiet mirth escaped you. "I thought they looked comfy." You responded. He opened his eyes, pushing himself up onto his elbow to glance at his boxers that were adorning your lower half. You turned your head to look at him.

"Hm." He continued to feel the fabric. "i wanna get a better look at this."

He moved onto his back, urging you to straddle him which you happily did so. He examined you, intensely- like someone examining a piece of art- making sure it was real. You couldn't help but laugh.

"why so intense about it Lo?" You hummed. He chuckled.

"Looks good on you." He says, taking the waistband and snapping it against your hip. "Little big."

"Well, have you see you?"

He smirked. His hands coming down to rub your thighs. The look of his boxers on you- they peaked his interest, they looked good. Really good. It made his mind wander- wonder things like how they may feel after you wear them. Maybe, just maybe if makes you real happy while wearing them- some of you essence will get left behind, staining the cloth.

"Say baby, not too tired are you?"

2013 Wolverine: His old jacket.

The leather jacket he used to wear all the time, back before everything happened. Left it behind when he left the mansion- when he left you.

Not that he wanted to leave you- but he thought it best. He failed you, he failed everyone.

Yet here you were, staring back at him, wrapped in the leather that was a bit too big for you. Looks like it was keeping you warm though. Good, considering the mountains are freezing. He certainly knew that.

"Logan."

Your voice sounded sweet- just as he remembered it.

He wasn't sure how'd he react when he'd see you again, wasn't sure how it'd go. However all he could think was how nice you looked in his jacket.

You pulled it closer around yourself. Seemed like a habit, the way your hands held onto it. He could almost see, by the look in your eyes and the way your fingers held the fabric. Like you were imagining it was him.

"It's time to come home Lo." You say. "I miss you."

He didn't say anything. Just stood there, staring back at you- not quite sure if you were real. Had plenty of strange dreams, saw strange things while living out in the Canadian Rockies. Most of them involved you.

Only one way to be sure.

He walked forward towards you. The snow crunching under his boots. You didn't move, looking at him pleadingly- waiting for his next move.

His arms came around, and pulled you into an embrace. He buried his face into your hair- then down to your neck as he took a deep breath. His jacket- the one he wore religiously for years, now smelled like you.

He wondered if you'd be willing to give it back to him, once you're both back home.

Patch! Logan: "Where is the damn thing...." He mutters quietly under his breath. He was all ready- his sparkling white suit, cleaned and pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. Cuff links, in a shape of a X, pinned to the cuffs of his jacket. His eye patch- set perfectly, as usually. All that was missing was his bowtie.

The damn thing was a bright red. How could he not find it?

He remember taking it off last night- or rather, you took it off. Nearly ripped the damn thing off. Threw it...By the window.

He pushed the furniture around- still unable to find it.

He checked his watch. Couldn't look any longer. He'll have to settle for a regular black bow tie. It's classy sure. His red tie however- he considered it lucky. He needed all the luck he could get tonight.

So there he was, his usual thing, gambling, drinking, spying- eavesdropping.

That's when he spotted you. Pretty thing- as always. Only something.... different.

You were next to the head honcho of the casino- usually are. He likes to parade you around and show you off however you have no interest in the likes of him.

You had that pretty red dress that drives him wild on. The one that hugs your curves, leaves little to the imagination with the slit in the thigh and off the shoulder sleeves and a neckline that reached very low. At the center of neckline, was his bow tie

You must have pinned it there, you little vixen.

You looked bored, until you spotted him in the crowd. The way your face lit up sent butterflies through him- only they melted into something more, as he felt his trousers grow tighter when you brought your hand to the bow tie that sat pretty.

Your boss put his arm around you, unnoticing that your attention was on Logan from across the room.

This guy may act like you belong to him to the public, but you were quietly yet openly wearing the very thing that told Logan,

You belonged to Patch.

Cowboy! Logan: He'd been looking for it all day. Unsure of how he could have lost the damn thing! Took it off during a catnap against a tree, woke up with it gone.

All he knew, is he was going to shoot whoever the hell took it.

Eyed the farm boys who act scared as hell of him- he doubts they would have done it. Hell they pretty much piss themselves if he so much glanced at em.

the lil kids that like to climb all over him- as if he wasn't the most dangerous outlaw in the West- no - The States. They've tried to take his hat more than once after all- but a quick glance into the school building and they definitely weren't the culprits. Neither was the teacher who shooed him out.

Checked the bar- making sure those damn assholes that sit and drink their health away didn't pull some bullshit. He wouldn't be surprised, since he beats them at every card game they've challenged him to since he's shown up. It wasn't them though- on account that they were all passed out on the floor with a disgruntled barkeep.

He was at a lost, about to surrender that he'll have to go buy a new one. To bad, he really liked that hat.

Until it occurred to him that he hadn't seen you in awhile.

In fact- he was so disgruntled by losing his hat, he completely forgotten that the catnap he took- was right by your side. You were leaning on his shoulder, falling asleep just like him. Now you and the hat were missing.

Didn't take long for him to find you- nearby your family home, by that pond you like to read by. You held a cheeky smile as he approached you.

"There you are, you little thief." He accused- eyes taking in the stetson upon your pretty little head. "I was bout to shoot someone over that thing, you know that right? Anyone teach you not to take stuff?"

"What?" You acted innocent. "You put it in my lap. Naturally I thought you were giving it to me."

He pressed a hand and leaned against a tree, looking down at you. "Now sweetheart, you do know what it means when you wear a cowboys hat, right?"

You blinked innocently up at him. A devilish grin spread across his face. "No? What does it mean?"

[cressidagrey]

Looked to the Sky - Chapter 10

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was, however, Azriel‘s mate with her own mysterious, untrained powers.

Also known as: Azriel tries to court his mate the human way.

Warnings: 

THIS IS THE LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE SEQUEL! SO READ THAT FIRST IF YOU WANNA READ THIS ONE OTHERWISE THIS MAKES NO SENSE!

Elain Bashing, Low Self Esteem, Eira has a shiny new spine, Azriel threatens to murder and the shadows keep torturing Elaine's floral arrangements and without @k-godling this would have never happened.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

“And if something happens…”

“We do know how to contact you,” Mor drawled drily from her seat on the couch. “Velaris will still be standing when you return, High Lord,” she told Rhys sarcastically. Az bit back a smile while Amren huffed.

"And you're alright with taking care of Nyx?" Feyre checked carefully. It was already dangerous enough for the High Lord, the High Lady, the General and the Spymaster to be out of the Night Court at the same time. There was no need to add the Heir to the Night Court to it as well.

Mor rolled her eyes. "He'll be alive and happy when you return," she promised Feyre.

Rhys sighed as he watched Feyre fuss over Nyx, who was sitting on the ground beside her, playing with what looked like a stuffed toy of some sort. A bat, now that he was looking at it with more interest. 

He wondered where exactly he had gotten that from for a moment. 

"He’ll be in good hands, love," Rhys assured Feyre, walking over to place his hands on her shoulders.

"And don't give her too much milk!" Azriel heard his mate exclaim, fussing about the little kitten that followed behind Eira everywhere. Snow, or Snowflake, as Eira had christened her, would stay with Cerridwen and Nuala...and Eira was fussy about it. Had been for days. 

Azriel had more than once been jealous of a damn cat because it got all of Eira’s attention. And then he looked at Eira smiling at her, at playing with her with a ribbon, at how she coaxed her to eat little pieces of chicken from her hands, and scratched her underneath her chin, all of this with that expression on her face that told him that she was incandescently happy and he wasn’t jealous anymore. Eira loved her. How could he be jealous of that?

Eira appeared just a moment later, Snow still wrapped in her arms. She was clad in a green coat over a cream dress…if one could call it a coat? Azriel had absolutely no clue about fashion but it was a weird coat. It only had three-quarter-length sleeves and the neckline was open, with a shawl collar that bared her clavicle...and right there rested a necklace featuring fat emeralds that he knew the shadows had given her.

His shadows twined around her, whispering their approval for how pretty she looked, and he couldn’t disagree. 

Eira was… She was stunning. She always was, of course. But that simple - yet still lovely - dress, the necklace, and her hair that was pinned up carefully with combs in it...Perfect.

He took her in, the slender, elegant lines of her figure in the dress, the dark gold strands of her hair in the elaborate braided hairstyle that revealed her lovely neck, and those blue-grey eyes that met his as a blush stained her cheeks.

She was beautiful.

"Where did you get that necklace from?" Amren suddenly demanded, staring at the necklace resting around Eira's throat with hungry eyes that made not only Azriel's brows raise.

Eira froze, and her fingers moved up to the emeralds that sat against her skin.

"The...?" she stumbled over her words a little bit, her glance shifting nervously between him, Amren, and Mor and Feyre, who had both also turned to look. "I...the Shadows got it for me," she said quietly, her cheeks darkening further.

What is this about? he demanded from the shadows, which seemed to nearly preen with something.

The Tiny Ancient One wanted it. We bought it first, they answered drily. Petty. So Petty.

He had to bite his lip to avoid snickering.

Of course, the Shadows had stolen something Amren had wanted from right under her nose. Of course, they had.

She still hasn’t apologised to her, the shadows sniped. It’s her own fault.

True. Amren was back in the city because Rhys would prefer his second and third to be there, but that came with strict instructions. Azriel wasn’t quite sure what exactly had been said, but the shadows had promised him that The High Lord had been more than clear with Amren. 

A little mrrrrp from Snowflake in her arms brought attention down to the kitten, and Azriel reached out to fondly stroke the little ball of fluff. Eira giggled as Snowflake leaned into his touch, pressing her face against his fingers and continuing to purr.

"She likes you," Eira said with a little smile, watching the little cat with fondness.

"I think the feeling is mutual," Az murmured quietly, as he gently scratched Snowflake's head, and she just continued to press against his hands for more. Another mrrrp escaped the little cat, and Eira giggled a little.

"There we are!" Cassian exclaimed at that moment, Nesta trailed behind him. "I hope Helion still knows how to throw a party!"

"Or how to host one at least," Azriel grumbled under his breath, as he withdrew his hand from Snowflake's head. Rhys chuckled at the comment, as Feyre rolled her eyes.

Eira next to him stayed quiet, and he could see the nervousness in every line of her body. He offered her his arm and she slid her hand into the crook of his elbow, as she placed Snow on the ground.

"It will be alright," he promised her. It would be alright. It was only a wedding. Even if that meant facing Elain and he knew how nervous Eira was about that…He wasn’t nervous. He had promised himself an iron-clad grip on his temper. It would not flare. He would not actually kill Elain. Regardless of if he thought she deserved it for what she had done to them. “I’ll be there,” he added after a moment.  He wasn’t going to leave her to face her demons alone. Not when she had grown even paler at the thought of facing Elain. Her fingers were gripping his arm almost like a vice.

"Everybody ready?" Rhys asked. "We'll winnow into the Courtyard of Sunray Palace."

A chorus of confirmations met his question, as Azriel placed a little kiss against his mate’s head, while her fingers in the crook of his elbow remained as tight as iron.

“Ready as we’ll ever be, I guess...” Cassian muttered, and Azriel silently agreed.

The shadows wrapped around them, and Azriel took a moment to make sure Eira was wrapped in them as well before they vanished from the River House. And rematerialised in the Day Court.

His first thought was...it was bright.

Very bright.

The brilliant sun was shining overhead, and the courtyard they appeared in was large and lovely, if a bit...showy. Similar to the House of Wind, The Sunray Palace was carved into the stone of a Mountain, that was covered in lush grass. He looked up to see a group of Pegasi fly up to their home in the highest tower.

He turned his head to check on Eira, catching her pale face and the nervous gulp as she took the Palace in, and his worry spiked. She was shaking like a leaf, and her knuckles were white where she clutched his elbow.

And then he watched as her shoulders went back and her chin went up, her jaw clenched nearly imperceptively. "You look lovely by the way," he whispered in her ear, making her blush. "Green suits you. Though I am partial to blue."

The compliment drew a flush of colour to her cheeks, and her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly as a little smile appeared on her face.

“Of course, you would say that,” she shot back, the slight tremble in her voice still there. “You’re biased. And don’t try to distract me.”

He chuckled even as he led them forward, the two of them easily slotting into place between Nesta and Cassian, Nesta throwing her younger sister a look. Azriel could read the worry into it but he shook his head nearly imperceptively. Eira was doing well. Better than he thought she would at any rate.

Eira still looked nervous. Extremely nervous. Her hand still had a death grip on his arm, and she was walking stiffly beside him, and yet...she still had her chin lifted high, her eyes forward. He had to admire the courage she was putting on.

The doors to the Palace suddenly opened, and Helion stepped out, grinning brilliantly. “Well, well, well, you all are a sight for sore eyes,” he said, his voice drawling out the syllables in that typical Day Court fashion.

“Don’t you know it, High Lord,” Cassian replied in his usual easy, charming tone, and Helion chuckled as his gaze travelled over the group with a smirk. Suddenly the smirk faltered as his gaze landed on Eira and the shadows wrapped around her.

His eyes widened, and Azriel didn't know what this was about before Helion continued. "We prepared rooms for you all. Why don't you arrive properly and then we'll have lunch?"

The suggestion was casual, but Azriel still thought that Helion's gaze remained on the way the shadows swirled up her body. It did result in the shadows hissing

"Thank you," Rhys drawled, easily matching the Day Court High Lord's tone. "We'll do that, and we'll see you for lunch."

The High Lord nodded, and retreated back into the Palace, while the group headed in the same direction.

When he glanced at Eira again, her face was paler than before, her hands trembling even more.

"Breathe, love," he whispered to her quietly, his voice soft, hoping it would soothe her a little bit. She gave him a weak nod in response, and he could see her forcing herself to take a shaky breath in. Azriel didn't know entirely what was going through her head, but he had the feeling it was not a happy thought, by any means.

They were shown to their suite of rooms, arranged around a shared living room, and he led her to a marigold yellow sofa. She collapsed like somebody cut the strings holding her up.

He had half a mind to curse, but her paler face, the trembling hands, stopped him. Instead, he carefully lowered himself down onto the sofa beside her, pulling her onto his lap without a second thought, and wrapped her in the shadows around them.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he repeated, as one of his hands stroked gently up and down her back, while the other cupped her cheek.

She leaned against his touch willingly, as another shudder wracked her frame.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she whimpered.

His heart wrenched in his chest at the tremble in her voice. "There's nothing wrong with you, love," he assured her quietly. "Nothing at all. You are nervous to face Elain. That's alright."

She sighed softly, but relaxed against him, bedding her head against his shoulder.

"Looking awfully comfy there," Cassian drawled and her cheeks flushed scarlet. She moved to get off his lap but Azriel held her in place gently until she stilled.

He wrapped his arm a little bit tighter around her, keeping her from getting off his lap, as he shot Cassian a quick glare, while the hand rubbing her back continued the slow and gentle motion.

He could almost hear the Shadows whispering their own displeasure at Cassian in the back of his mind. Azriel could hear a sharp smack and he just knew that it must have been Nesta.

He turned his head to send a glare in Cassian's direction, as the Shadows snickered in his mind.

"Sorry, I am sorry, Eira" Cassian hurried to add, as Feyre stifled a laugh behind her hand.

Eira said nothing, just curled tighter against him, resting her temple against his shoulder. 

"We got three bedrooms, not four," Rhys said with a sigh, apparently having surveyed the rooms in the meantime. "They clearly expected Azriel and Eira to share a room.”

Azriel wondered if that was on purpose. If that was Elain’s doing. Her attempt at making Eira uncomfortable. Eira, the one of the sisters that kept the most to human ideals of modesty, that blushed if he as much as kissed her cheek…that only kissed him when they were alone. And even then it were quick pecks against his lips. 

Not that he would ever protest against one of Eira’s kisses. He wanted to hoard each touch of her plush, soft lips against his like a dragon hoarded its treasure. 

But now he could feel Eira's body stiffen in his lap once more, and he glanced down at her. She was very pale again, her fingers trembling where they were wrapped around his jacket. He wanted to smack his head against the nearest wall, or at least something, but he refrained from doing that, and instead just pulled her further against his chest with a quiet huff.

"Their error," Nesta said drily. "Eira and I will share."

The Shadows were practically sulking in his head. 

He shut them up with a growl. 

Even when he wouldn’t have laid a single finger on Eira if they did share a bed, that clearly was a step too far for her. It would have made her uncomfortable. And he wasn’t going to push her. Not ever. 

He had never asked, but there didn’t seem to be any human suitors in her past. Kissing seemed foreign to her, making her nervous and excited, her heartbeat quickening and she stared at him with this expression of wonder on her face. 

"Alright, that works as well," Feyre agreed, and Azriel silently echoed that. 

He could feel how tense Eira still was in his lap, though. Still trembling nervously under his touch. He continued to rub her back slowly, still trying to soothe her. 

“Cassian can share with Azriel,” Nesta declared. 

“Oh come on,” Cassian muttered. 

The Shadows muttered their displeasure as well. 

Azriel rolled his eyes, his fingers still rubbing her back soothingly.

"You're a grown male, Cassian," he said, his voice dry. "I'm sure you'll live."

A huff from the General, and Azriel just rolled his eyes again, his glance down to his mate again.

She still looked quite pale. The hand on her back continued the gentle rubbing. 

"Interesting that it wasn't Elain and Lucien that greeted us," Feyre said drily. "Given that it's their wedding we are supposed to attend."

"Very interesting," Rhys agreed, as Azriel continued to eye Eira in his lap.

She was still tense against him, still pale, still trembling a little bit. Her nervousness and fear were rolling in waves towards him, through the bond.

"Elain will be at the lunch, no doubt," Feyre said, and Rhys just hummed in agreement.

The Shadows continued to whisper angrily in his mind, upset at the way their Mate was feeling.

"Or maybe Elain is terrified of what the shadows will do to her now," Nesta quipped darkly.

Azriel couldn't help but smirk a little bit at that.

He could practically hear the Shadows preen. Cassian let out a bark of laughter, and Feyre tried to hold hers back, while Rhys tried to keep a serious expression.

You'll behave, he told them sternly.

Maybe , they hissed back, though they were still clearly preening over the compliment.

He rolled his eyes and glanced down at Eira again.

I mean it. You will behave. You do not attack her, he reiterated in his head. 

A few displeased mutterings echoed in his head, but they did quiet down. He refrained from rolling his eyes this time, and his glance went back to the female in his lap. She was no longer pale, the tremors and shakes having died down, and while she was still nervous, she now appeared relaxed. At least a little bit.

"Let's get changed for Lunch," Nesta said easily.

"You literally just put on a dress before we arrived here," Cassian said with a snort.

"You don't need to understand females, Cassian," Rhys said easily. "Just deal with it."

Cassian grumbled, as Feyre stifled another laugh and Azriel held in a snicker.

Nesta held out her hand for Eira, who took it and let her sister pull her to her feet, giving him a small smile and his hand a squeeze before they, together with Feyre, disappeared into one bedroom.

He watched her go, a strange feeling of loss creeping up once she was out of his sight.

Azriel was tempted, so tempted to get up and go after her, pull her back onto the sofa, onto his lap, into his arms, but he managed to stop himself from doing so.

He leaned his head back against the back of the sofa, and a long sigh escaped him.

"You're absolutely besotted." His head snapped up to see Rhys staring at him, his violet eyes sparkling with smug amusement. The Shadows immediately hissed in agreement his mind at Rhys' observation.

"Shut up," Azriel just grumbled.

Rhys smirked at him in response, and Cassian just laughed. "Whatever you do tonight, if your shadows start sweetly caressing me like they do to Eira, I'll scream," Cassian muttered.

"That won't happen," Azriel immediately shot back, the words practically hissed through his teeth.

At the same time, the Shadows muttered their own disapproval of that possibility. Only our Mate, they whispered.

Cassian just rolled his eyes.

"Do you think she'll manage?" Cassian asked, growing serious. "She seems awfully...nervous."

A heavy sigh escaped him, as he sat up straighter in his seat, running a hand through his hair.

"I don't know," he admitted. "She...is very nervous. But she's trying not to be. She's trying to stay brave."

"And you?" Rhys asked quietly. "How are you holding up?"

He took a deep breath, contemplating the question.

He was angry. Furious. Worried about his mate, his heart clenching every time he felt her distress through the bond.

But he had to stay strong. For her. He needed to keep it together.

"I..." he mumbled, his voice faltering. He had to pause for a moment to collect himself. "I'm hanging in there."

Silence followed his admission, and Cassian and Rhys were studying him. He knew his friends could see through his facade, knew that they knew how worried he was. His face must have given all away.

"You have every right to be angry," Rhys said quietly. "I don't know what I would do in your place."

"What I want to do is to take her home," he admitted, his voice quiet and gruff, his eyes fixed on his lap, where he was clenching his hands into fists. "I want to take her home. I don't want her here. I don't want her to face Elain. Hell, I don't even want her to meet Elain at all. I..." He took a shuddering breath. "But she needs this. She needs this closure. I think Eira knows that herself."

Another heavy sigh escaped him, as he lifted his head and met Rhys' eyes.

"I just hate...seeing her so scared. She doesn't deserve this. She doesn't deserve to feel frightened and scared because of...Elain," he said, bitterness seeping into his voice as he said her name.

"What did she see?" Cassian said suddenly. "Elain had a vision of you and Eira and worked to make sure it wouldn't come to pass. But what did she see?"

"Cass..." Rhys said carefully, but Azriel shook his head. It was alright.

"She saw...She saw Eira and a little girl in a garden. A little girl with her hair and freckles and my wings and eyes. She saw me coming home to them...picking up our daughter and kissing Eira...they saw my hand on her swollen belly...another child in her womb. She saw our children Cassian." There was a heavy pause after Azriel's words.

Cassian just stared at him, wide-eyed and silent, while Rhys' mouth was set into a thin-lipped grave line.

His voice had started shaking a little bit, towards the middle of his story, and he clenched his jaw against the emotions building in his chest.

"That you didn't outright kill her is a fucking miracle," Cassian seethed.

"I damn near came close," Azriel muttered darkly, while anger coursed through his veins.

His jaw was set, his hands were clenching and unclenching almost of their own accord, while the Shadows kept muttering angrily in the back of his mind. They were furious, furious that their Mate was distressed.

"Why did she do it?" Cassian demanded. "Because she is the prettier one? Because if she couldn't have Azriel, Eira shouldn't have him either? Because of jealousy ?!"

"Jealousy and spite," Azriel said darkly. "That's what it comes down to. Jealousy and spite ."

He wanted to break something. Preferably Elain. He wanted to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze.

He took a shuddering breath to collect himself, as he felt himself slowly losing control of his temper.

But he needed to stay in control. He had to. He wasn't going to explode, not in front of Cassian and Rhys, and certainly not in front of Eira.

"I...hate...her," he bit out, his voice strangled, as his hands clenched and unclenched, even as he tried to keep control over his temper. "I hate her so much. Hell, I want to destroy the very thought of her. I...I want to make sure she can never hurt Eira again. And if it's the last thing I damn well do," he continued, and his voice was venomous. "She. Will. Never. Lay one finger on my mate ever again."

"And I'll make her suffer," he snarled, his voice almost a growl. "By the Mother, I won't just kill her. I'll make her suffer first. For what she did to Eira. For what she did to us. For the thought of that future that she denied me. I will make her pay."

A strangled breath escaped him, his lungs straining with the effort of keeping himself from going on a rampage right then and there.

He closed his eyes, and took a long shuddering breath, as fury continued to course through his veins, while the Shadows hissed and whispered in his mind, their mutterings murderous in nature.

He let out a shuddering breath, as he tried to will his raging temper to abate. He needed to calm down. He needed to, for Eira. She was nervous enough as it was. He couldn't go to her like this. He...He wouldn't do it. He refused to upset her further.

He kept his eyes closed, as he tried to force his emotions to a simmering rage.

Another shuddering breath escaped him, as it took all his strength to calm down. He forced the tension from his body, slowly loosening his clenched jaw. His hands were still clenched into tight fists, but he continued to just breathe deeply, willing his temper to die down.

It felt like an eternity before he finally felt in control of his own emotions again.

He opened his eyes again and met Rhys and Cassian's stares.

Neither of them said anything, silently watching him, and he leaned back against the sofa with a sigh.

"I'm alright," he said and was slightly surprised that his voice was steady, even if he still felt like he was full of rage. "I'm fine. I'm alright," he repeated, and it was more of a reminder to himself than anything else.

"You need to not react like that when you see her," Rhys said quietly, and Azriel couldn't tell if it was a warning or a mere observation.

"I know that," he said between clenched teeth. "I know that, Rhys. But I have every right to be furious. Hell, I have every right to rip her apart."

"You do," Rhys agreed quietly. "But it won't do anyone any favours if you get like this when you see her. You need to keep your temper in check. For Eira ."

***

Eira was staring at her reflection in the mirror, struggling to recognise the person looking back at her. 

Her eyes were wide and anxious, her breathing quick and nervous, and her hands were trembling. A part of her was wondering how she was even managing to stand at the moment, seeing how her legs felt like they were close to giving in underneath her.

But she was also...she was also dressed in a tissue-thin gown out of pleated silk in a lavender colour, cinched in around the waist by an embroidered ribbon she had made. Her hair was pulled back from her face, diamond encrusted haircombs that she had no clue from where these had come from fastened in her hair...( One day she would need to actually get the shadows to stop buying her things. ), a diamond bracelet tightened around her wrist…They had even clipped earrings to her lobes, diamonds as well, dangly and pretty and in the Human Lads would be considered to be too much for a simple luncheon. 

But here in Prythian, the shadows didn’t seem to think twice about it, to wrap her in more diamonds than most people had ever even seen in the same place. 

Once they judged her ready,  a tendril of shadows curled itself back around her wrist, while another picked up the small train of her dress.

"You know, I am kinda jealous. You have a handmaiden wherever you are," Feyre said drily.

Eira let out an embarrassed little laugh, the sound shaky and weak as her heart felt like it was going to pound its way out of her chest.

"They are...very helpful," she admitted, as she gave a small, nervous glance to Feyre.

Nesta finished pinning her own hair into her usual coronet, smoothing the blue-green fabric of her dress. "You do not need to accept her apology," her eldest sister said fiercely. "Remember that, Eira."

She swallowed, the familiar nervous butterflies back in her stomach, and she gave a shaky nod.

Feyre placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, as she gave her a gentle squeeze. It was a little steadying and helped quell some of her anxiousness, even as the nervous tremors continued to wrack through her body.

"I...know," she said quietly.

Right. There went nothing.

She took a few more, long, deep breaths, to calm her nerves.

She was going to be alright. She was going to be just...fine.

You're going to be fine, she repeated to herself as she squared her shoulders.

Azriel was waiting for her as she left the bedroom, in a quiet conversation with Rhys and Cassian. He looked up as soon as he came out, his expression softening.

His eyes widened momentarily as a breath caught in his throat at the sight of her in that dress, and a small smile started spreading across his lips.

"Eira," he said quietly, taking a tentative step towards her. "You...You look beautiful, sweetheart."

She gave a shaky smile, her eyes meeting his as those familiar little butterflies came to life in her belly.

"Thank you," she whispered, her heart fluttering at the affectionate endearment.

"Ready?" Rhys asked.

She exhaled, steadying her breathing, willing her trembling body to not shake.

Eira gave a shaky nod, even as the familiar anxiousness threatened to overwhelm her, and she swallowed past the lump forming in her throat.

"Ready," she whispered.

She just needed...She reached out for Azriel's hand before she could help herself, not caring how inappropriate this was. They weren't married, they weren't even engaged and still, she claimed his hand with hers, threading her fingers through his.

The feeling of scarred skin against her home, grounded her, giving her something to hang onto. 

The shadows that kept closer to him than usual, hiding behind the wings he had snapped close to his body, dusted over her arms for just a moment, like they wanted to assure Eira that they were there as well, before returning to their mater, leaving her with a few wrapped around her wrist and another tendril keeping her skirt in place. 

For a brief moment, Azriel looked down at where their fingers were woven together, before lifting his head again and giving her fingers a firm, reassuring squeeze. She felt his warmth through his skin, the steady beat of his pulse, and it was comforting...comforting to know that he was right next to her.

She took a few more, deep breaths, the anxiety continuing to flutter in her stomach, but...

But Azriel was here, she reasoned.

Azriel was right there...right next to her, holding her hand...and she could do this. She could get through this. All she had to do was stay close to him.

They were let to a dining room, with high ceilings, beautifully appointed in white and gold. 

“I swear I told them to put white jasmine and blush roses in here and not yellow carnations and orange lilies!” she heard her sister’s voice before she saw her. 

Seconds later, she got her first glance at her twin sister. Lucien and she made a lovely couple, always had. And Elain did look as utterly beautiful as she always had. Elain had always been extraordinarily lovely, but that hadn't changed in her transformation into a High Fae. Now she was utterly beautiful. 

Even when… with a blink Eira realised how harried-looking Elain was, fiddling with the flowers on the table.  Her heart clenched at the sight of her, mixed with the swirling, anxious emotions in her stomach, and she couldn't help the shuddering breath that escaped her as they walked into the room.

Azriel's hand clenched around hers.

Her eyes snapped to his. His face was a mask of ice. She had never seen him look ...like that before. Never seen...this tightly controlled murderous rage.

The shadow tightened around her wrist. She wasn't sure if it was in warning, but she didn't care anyway.

He was hers. Hers in every bit of this murderous rage. 

They came to a halt, and she felt the way Azriel clenched his jaw as his eyes met with Elain's across the room.

He was furious, she could practically feel the rage simmering under the surface, the only thing keeping him in check was his ironclad control...and the fact that he was holding onto her hand.

She would leave the diplomacy to Feyre and Rhys, the useless pretty words. She didn’t trust herself to say anything that was actually nice. Instead, she tugged Azriel along to find their seats at the table, pasting a smile on her face.

They sat at the table, and Azriel kept a firm hold of her hand, never loosening his grip on her. The shadows kept themselves firmly around her wrist and continued to cling unto her, even as they settled into place at the table.

And a part of her could feel how Azriel was tensed, how he was wound up so tight she was afraid he might snap.

Cassian sat down next to Azriel, with Nesta bracketing Eira's other side, fully ignoring whatever seating arrangement had been put down by the Day Court. 

Eira wasn’t stupid, she knew exactly why Cassian had been put there. In the event of Azriel losing his temper, Cassian may had a chance at subduing him. Though she somehow doubted that would actually work. 

With them right there, and Azriel holding onto her hand, she felt...steady. She felt secure...secure enough to withstand this dreaded luncheon.

Feyre and Rhys sat down next to Helion, Lucien and Elain, and she could feel the tension in the room.

She could sense Elain's gaze on her, sitting directly across from her. , but didn't dare to meet her eyes as the anxiousness roiled in her stomach, even as Azriel's fingers continued to grasp hers, and one of the shadows curled around her wrist, giving a small, reassuring little squeeze.

"It's so nice that you could make it," Elain said, a smile on her face, masking her nervousness. She was glancing at the shadows that were topping up Eira’s water glass, clearly making a pest out of themselves, to put bread on her plate and drag the butter dish closer to her. 

For just one moment Eira wondered if they did that on purpose. Were they trying to scare Elain?

"We wouldn't have wanted to miss this," Feyre said, her voice carefully neutral.

There was a stiffness in the air, palpable enough that it could be cut with a knife, the tension as so thick that one could drown in it, and Eira just sat there, her fingers tightly wrapped around Azriel's hand.

There was a moment of silence, where nobody commented.

And then...her heart hammered against her ribs, her stomach twisting in knots, as those doe-like brown eyes landed directly on her. "You look...good, Eira. Healthy. I hope everything healed well," Elain said sweetly.

Her breath caught in her throat as she fought down the nausea that welled up in her stomach, and she forced a tight smile onto her lips.

"Everything healed up just fine," she said, her voice shaking, only to be steadied by the firm squeeze Azriel gave her hand.

It was the truth. Nothing but a thin white line underneath her left breast. Nobody but her would probably ever see it. 

"And the... lightning ?" Lucien wondered. "I hope your cauldron-given gift didn't give you too much trouble," he quipped, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Elain mentioned that you…defended yourself quite well.”

The nausea that welled up in her throat was nearly immediate. Defended herself. She had defended herself. She had also killed 4 males. 

"Lightning?" The High Lord of Day asked, sounding fascinated. He was looking at her like she was an exceptionally interesting specimen.  

Her stomach roiled, the nausea continuing to grow inside her, as her heart thundered in her chest.

“No,” Eira said, struggling to keep her voice even. “It...It wasn’t too much trouble,” she continued, even as the nausea continued to rise, and she felt like she might retch all over the table.

"She's learning to control it," Rhys said evenly. "She's doing as well as one could expect."

Her heart fluttered at Rhys’ words. He was trying his best to...deflect the attention away from her. Trying to help.

“So she really can generate lightning then?” Helion spoke up, sounding utterly fascinated.

"She can," Rhys confirmed, his voice even. His words were simple, but the tone of them was almost warning, and she could feel Azriel tense even more next to her. And that was enough to pique Helion’s interest.

“Extraordinary,” he said, and he sounded way too fascinated with her wretched blessing.

Her heart skipped a beat, the nausea continuing to grow in her stomach until she feared she might vomit at any moment. Her hand clenched around Azriel's, fingers practically digging into his skin, while the shadows around her wrist squeezed reassuringly. And all the while, she could feel Elain's eyes on her, her stare practically boring into her.

"Do the shadows help control it?" Elain asked hesitantly. Only now, Eira realised that more had come to swarm around her, banding around her midsection and chest, like trailing black ribbons. Their touch was gentle, and soft. 

"No," came Azriel's reply, and his voice was so filled with cold fury that she was amazed he could even get the words out.

He was tense, like a coiled spring, holding onto her hand like a lifeline, while the shadows continued to cling to her, continuing to twine around her wrist in a firm, reassuring grip.

"They like touching Eira because she's Azriel's mate," Cassian said, his voice icy. Her heart stuttered in her chest at Cassian's words.

His blunt, to-the-point declaration of her belonging to Azriel...the words had stunned her, and it seemed they had stunned Elain too if the way that she stiffened was any indicative.

"Ah, yes...we should talk about that," Helion said with a sigh. "Elain?"

The tension in the room immediately ratcheted up even more higher, and Eira could feel it, as a chill settled over the room. She was so tense, she was struggling just to breathe, and her hand was trembling where it was held in Azriel’s ironclad grip.

"I am sorry," Elain said quietly.

Her heart skipped a beat at her twin sister’s words, her stomach twisting in knots, as her eyes flicked towards her. Elain’s voice was soft but sincere, and her brown eyes were wide and vulnerable, and there were tears in her eyes... Tears in her eyes as she spoke.

"I am sorry, Eira," she said again, her voice trembling. “For...for everything.”

And suddenly...suddenly the fear, the nervousness went away, replaced with ice-cold anger. "You are sorry ," she repeated flatly. Sorry .

The anger in her voice was not missed, and she heard Nesta and Feyre inhale sharply. Elain's eyes widened at the tone in her voice...at the anger in Eira’s words, and she gave a small, shaky nod, her chin trembling slightly.

"I am sorry. I shouldn't have...I shouldn't have...I shouldn't have tried to keep you and Azriel away from each other. I was...I shouldn't have done that."

Eira clenched her jaw, the anger still boiling in her blood as she continued to hold her sister’s gaze.

"No," she replied, her voice so flat it was as if it was made of ice. "You shouldn’t have done that," she repeated coldly. "But that's not all you did, Elain," she spat out. "You saw that vision. You know what you did." What she had done. Namely, keep Eira's babies from being born .

Her heart lurched in her chest, and she felt Azriel squeeze her hand tightly as if he knew what had been going through her thoughts.

Her throat was tight, and her breathing was laboured, as she continued to hold her sister’s gaze, her eyes cold and furious as she spoke.

"You did a lot more than keeping me away from Azriel',” she hissed.

And the worst part was, her sister didn’t even try to deny what she had done. Didn’t even try to fight back. All she could do was sit there, looking like a wounded puppy, which only fuelled the anger in Eira’s chest.

“You tried to take everything from me,” she hissed again.

"It all worked out!" Elain defended herself. "You and Azriel seem to be..."

She couldn’t be serious, could she? 

It all worked out?

It all worked out?!?

"It is not all ‘worked out’!" she snapped, her voice cracking as she fought back a frustrated scream bubbling in her chest. "You tried to take everything from me!" she repeated, tears burning at the corners of her eyes. The tears weren't for her. 

The tears were for her babies. 

The anger ratcheted in her chest and she could feel the lightning underneath her skin, begging to be released. Begging for her to let go of her grip on it and let it find its target. Let it find Elain. Let it hit her. 

She clenched her jaw, forcing that feeling down, as she met her sister’s eyes with a cold glare. "You tried to take my children from me," she hissed at Elain. " My children. "

The temperature in the room seemed to drop to below freezing, and she could feel Nesta and Feyre’s gazes on her. She didn’t care though. Her eyes were entirely focused on her twin, and the words had come out in a deadly hiss, the anger steaming out of her in waves.

"You tried to take our babies ," she repeated, her words cracking again as she spoke.

She felt Azriel’s grip on her hand tighten even more, the shadows clinging to her wrist once more, as if trying to both keep her grounded and hold her back.

And it was the only thing keeping her from lunging across the table and grabbing her sister by the throat.

Her skin was itchy, that strange, foreign energy writhing underneath the surface, and she fought to keep it reined in, to keep it from escaping, even as the room went silent, the tension so palpable you could taste it in the air.

It hurt, keeping it restrained, and her heart thudded against her ribs, her breath coming in quick, ragged gasps.

Her whole body was tense, and all she wanted was to let the lightning free. To let it roar.

"You are my twin sister, Elain," she said, biting out every word. "We spend 9 months sharing our mother's womb. I trusted you with my life. And you did this to me."

Her sister just sat there, her eyes wide and watery, as if somehow even that had been a shock to her.

"We spent years together," she continued, her words sharp and cold. "I never thought I would need to worry about you betraying me."

Her chest hurt like something was sitting on it, making it hard to breathe, as she continued to hold Elain’s gaze.

Elain’s eyes were wide, watery, and wounded, and she might have been almost sorry that she looked so hurt…if not for the fact that Elain was the one who had caused Eira to be in this position in the first place. Elain was the one who did this to her…hurt her so badly she didn’t know if it’d ever heal.

"I…I…" Elain started, her voice cracking. She looked like she was going to cry, and Eira felt herself waver slightly at the sight of her distraught expression. But then…her mind flashed back to the vision of her daughter , so small and beautiful…and that small, weak flutter of sympathy in her chest died.

"I trusted you," she hissed, her voice thick as she desperately tried to hold back the tears that were burning at the corners of her eyes. "I trusted you and look what you did to me. What you took from me."

Her sister let out a watery gasp, her lower lip quivering, and the tears slid silently down her face. And for a moment, Eira felt her resolve waver…only to remember the image of those two babies. The ones that should have been hers.

Anger flared again at that thought, her heart squeezing in her chest, as her breath hitched.

All the sympathy that she had felt was gone, and all that was left was the all-consuming rage coursing through her veins.

She had every right to be angry, she told herself. She had every right to feel this way.

She was so angry, so incandescent with rage, that her entire body was shaking, and she felt like she needed to just scream. To shout and rage and fight…fighting was all she wanted to do.

She gritted her teeth, her fingers wrapping tightly around Azriel’s hand, as she tried desperately to rein in the storm of emotions warring within her chest.

Azriel’s grip on her hand tightened as if he was sensing how close she was to breaking.

“Eira...” Elain said tremulously. Her sister’s voice was quiet, almost timid, and it was enough to snap something within her.

"Don’t. Don’t speak to me. You are the last person who gets to speak to me right now," she snarled, her voice cold as steel. "I loved you," Eira snapped. "I loved you and you did this to me. And now you want to tell me that everything is alright because it WORKED OUT?!"

Her sister looked like she was going to start sobbing, her lower lip quivering faintly, while her brown eyes were like large, round pools. But Eira was done feeling sorry for her. Done feeling sympathy towards her.

“You don’t get to talk to me about what’s alright or not,” she hissed, fighting the urge to reach forward and throttle her. "I just want to know one thing. Why?" she snapped." WHY? Why did you do it?” she shouted bitterly.

Elain looked like she had absolutely no idea how to answer that. She looked like a lost child, and it took all of Eira’s strength to keep her seat and not lunge across the table to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.

She knew her eyes were probably like ice when they met her sister’s, and her glare was hard as steel as she waited for her answer. "Why?" Eira repeated icily.

Her sister’s lower lip was trembling, just as much as her shoulders, as she raised her head to meet Eira’s furious glare.

"I…" Her voice was small and watery, and her eyes were now wide and pleading. "I…I was jealous," Elain whispered.

Eira’s jaw dropped at the words. At the admission, she had just heard. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting her sister to say, but a quiet confession of jealousy hadn’t been it.

Her sister’s chin trembled, her shoulders hunching slightly as she let out another sniffle. She sounded utterly small and looked almost pathetic in that moment as she slowly raised her head to meet her sister’s eyes.

“Of you and Azriel,” Elain admitted, her voice quiet, and trembling. "You...we just...we just got out of the cauldron and this was...one of the first things I saw. You didn't have visions. You weren't going insane. You...you adjusted so much quicker. Not a week later and you were making soup in the kitchen in the House of Wind and...you…were alright."

Alright. 

Eira thought back to these first few days after the cauldron. Thought back to the terror that had clawed under her skin. Thought back to too loud noises and every piece of clothing feeling like sandpaper against her skin. 

She thought back to how she hadn’t been able to sleep. How she had locked herself in the bathing chamber to hysterically break down because she had never wanted it. How she had pulled at her ears, too big, too pointy. How she had wanted to cut them off. How she had wanted to die. How she had thought that throwing herself off the balcony would be a solution . 

"I locked myself into the closet. I hid underneath the bed. I rocked back and forth and back and forth and hummed to myself to stop hearing heartbeats and breathing and birds," Eira spat out. "Yes, I was making soup. For you. Because somebody needed to," Eira said, her voice icy. “I wasn’t alright, Elain. I kept stuffing my ears with cotton wool for the better part of 2 years so I could sleep!”

Her sister looked like she was going to start crying yet again, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs, and it only fuelled the rage in Eira’s chest. 

“You were jealous of that ? Jealous that I was making soup? That I was taking care of you?” she repeated, her tone hard and cold. “Of the fact that I was trying to make a positive out of a shitty situation. That I was trying to move on with my life? That I tried not to give Feyre another thing to worry about? And you were jealous? Jealous of what ?!" 

Of the breakdowns she had daily? 

Her sister didn’t reply, her shoulders shaking as if she was trying to hold back a sob

“You were jealous of the fact that I was trying not to scream, not to break down crying,” she repeated, her voice now dangerously quiet. “Of the fact that I wasn’t moping around feeling sorry for myself, because somebody needed to make sure that you didn’t starve to death? That I was trying not to give Feyre or anyone any more of my baggage?”

"And that you got Azriel," Elain whispered. "You got...I saw you with him. With a kind man. I saw these children and I was...I wanted that. I wanted what that vision promised you. So I thought that if I..."

Her breath caught in her throat at her sister’s words, her heart twisting in her chest.

It was sick, what she had done. Horrible. And part of her had known that Elain had a crush on Azriel…but Eira had never thought she’d be spiteful enough to try and rip her children away from her just for that.

“So you wanted it," she stated coldly, her eyes like chips of ice. "You wanted what you saw me having. So you tried to take it for yourself.”

Her sister’s shoulders slumped, and she looked small and pathetic as she curled in on herself. That rage and anger were still burning hot inside her, but along with it, there was the slightest flicker of sympathy starting to burn within her again.

And Eira hated it. Hated that part of her that still felt sorry for her, even after what Elain had done. 

"And later? After you and Lucien figured things out?" Why did you continue it?" she snapped.

Her sister’s face screwed up, and she looked like she wanted to burst into tears yet again. Her chin quivered, her entire form trembling. And she looked so small and fragile, that that small flicker of sympathy flared again within her, and Eira found herself hating it.

"I was...I was angry," Elain muttered softly. "I was furious. I thought Azriel and I...there was something growing between us and then he...he called trying to kiss me a mistake."

Her sister’s voice was quiet and sad, and Eira could see her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Because it was," Azriel said, his voice quiet. "It was a mistake. You had a mate that was literally sleeping upstairs. I never should have laid a single finger on you."

Her sister flinched at Azriel's words and hunched even further in on herself, as if she wanted to crawl into a corner.  "Later it was revenge on me, wasn’t it?" Azriel said, ice dripping from his voice. 

Her sister looked as if she couldn't quite meet Azriel's gaze, her eyes lowered onto the table, her body trembling. She nodded. 

And part of the anger that was currently roiling within Eira burned hotter at that. How dare she look so pathetic now, like she was the damn victim and everything that had happened was Eira’s fault?

Eira’s free hand clenched into fists, and she could feel the sparks dancing across her skin, the strange energy writhing beneath the surface. Azriel, noticing this, gripped her hand tighter, his shadows snaking around her wrist again as they tried to rein in those sparks of lightning.

She didn’t want to hurt him. 

That was what made her reign it in. 

She was still boiling with rage, the anger thrumming through her veins like fire, and she desperately tried to calm herself, tried to get a hold of her temper.

She didn’t want to cause any damage, to break anything or hurt anyone, and the part of her that was still rational, still logical, forced her to rein in whatever was itching to get out. She breathed in and out, forcing herself to calm as those sparks danced across her fingers, and those shadows snaked up her arm. A part of her couldn’t help but notice how Elain’s eyes kept darting to the sparks and the shadows, her body tensing every time they appeared, and a small, vindictive part of her couldn’t help but be glad of it.

Her head was throbbing as that rage continued to thrum through her, but she took in another breath, forcing her mind to concentrate on the sensation of Azriel’s hand wrapped around her own. His skin was warm against hers. 

"I hope nobody ever does the same to you," Eira finally said, her voice quiet.

Her sister lifted her gaze, her eyes watery, and she looked as if she’d been slapped. She looked as if she was shocked at her words.

There was another pause, another silence, as the two sisters sat facing each other, and her words hung in the air.

Elain’s chin trembled again, as if she was fighting the urge to burst into tears once more. 

"I think we can all agree that Elain did not handle this...properly," Lucien said carefully.

Lucien’s words broke the silence, and Eira couldn’t help but feel a pang of irritation as he spoke. 

"No, she surely didn't," Rhys said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Her sister flinched at Rhys’s words, as if she had been struck, and her shoulders drooped even further than before. 

"I think that's an understatement," Nesta snapped.

Her sister’s eyes widened as if the sound of Nesta’s voice startled her. Elain’s head jerked to look over at her eldest sister, who was scowling at Elain with an almost furious look of disapproval.

Eira almost felt a little bad for her sister at that look in Nesta’s eyes, but that sympathy was quickly squashed as she remembered the pain that her sister had put her through.

Her chest ached, the memory of what she had lost still too fresh and raw, and a part of her knew that it would take a long time for the pain to subside.

And even then, she wasn’t sure if she would ever be able to forget what Elain did to her, and that knowledge sat like a lead weight in her stomach, making her feel like she was going to be sick.

Elain shrunk back at the look on Nesta’s face, her eyes even wider as she looked over at her eldest sister. And for a moment, just for a moment, it looked as if Nesta was going to reach across the table and smack her sister. The eldest sister’s hands were clenched into fists, and she looked like she was restraining herself, only just managing to rein in her own temper.

A pause. Another silence. Elain sat, looking small and fragile across the table, Lucien’s chair positioned right beside hers with a possessive arm wrapped over the back.

Azriel’s hand was still gripping hers. He was still sitting beside her, the Shadowsinger’s eyes glittering with fury whenever he looked over at her sister. And his fingers were still rubbing gentle circles on her wrist, the shadows still coiled against her skin, and Eira couldn’t tell if he was doing it to comfort her or himself.

"I am going to say this now," Azriel said quietly. " Once . If you ever do anything remotely similar to your sister again, it will not end well. Do you understand me?"

Elain’s chin quivered, and she looked as if she was struggling to keep herself from bursting into tears again.

She swallowed as Azriel’s words, before slowly lifting her head, forcing herself to meet his eyes with her own. “I…” She took in another shuddering breath. “I understand,” she whispered.

[sharktooth-jacket]

Well I said I'd never make another tumblr after I left during the whole porn ban fallout but here I am askhgsj!! PLEASE tell me there's an active OFMD fandom over here because I finally finished watching it over the weekend and I learned that apparently there's an Ed and Stede shaped hole in my life and I'm about to drive everyone I know insane talking about them aslkglaksjjk

anyway MY TAKES!!!

so first of all this show is actually gay. like for real real. I watched the first season with a friend who's pretty big into shipping (no shade, I'm just not into that kind of fandom) and I fully expected this to just be queerbait. FRIENDS I'M STILL SHOOK ABOUT THIS akhgaj, I haven't been able to stop smiling since I finished it!! Because they're actually gay! And that's the point! THE POINT IS IT'S A LOVE STORY ABOUT STEDE AND ED HELLLOOO CAN ANYONE HEAR ME!!! Seriously I hadn't known how much I needed this show until I had it, I've never actually felt like the target audience for a show before

they could have made Ed and Stede so boring and one note AND THEY DIDN'T! I was sure from hearing my friend explain the premise that Stede would be this boring posh guy who's scared of everything, and Ed would be all tough and badass and boring, and that would be it. But no. Stede's a total weirdo who says "buckos" and picks up noses off the floor with his bare hands and Ed's an adorable dork who is scared of his own spider tattoo. I love them your honor akghaskj

also can i just say. Ed's fashion sense. Yes I get that the whole show is about masculinity and he's forcing himself into a style of masculinity that's restrictive and reductive. But consider: IT LOOKS HOT akshgakj I'm obsessed with his jacket with the shark teeth on it (as you can probably guess by the username lol)

SPEAKING OF ED I'll admit I hadn't thought of this until I saw people talking about it but reading his story as a trans man allegory works SO WELL! It's ABOUT him trying to live up to an impossible ideal of masculinity and killing himself in the process and being enraptured with a guy who's soft and learning to find a kind of masculinity he's comfortable with! I'm chewing my own arm off! I loved Jim (canon nonbinary rep holy shit) but as a trans man I just love this read for Ed's character so much 🥹

This is unrelated but my friend had also been trying to get me to watch The Last of Us and the two shows kinda melded in my mind I think? I figured it out eventually but at the end of season 1 episode 3 after Stede's been stabbed and there's the dramatic lighting and everything I was not thinking "oh boy Stede's about to meet the love of his life," I was pretty sure it was zombie time and thinking "oh no and now he has to deal with the zombies too???" alsghaklgk. I was all "is Blackbeard a zombie hunter" and my friend was like. "WHAT" akghjkjgkk

I watched season 2 on my own and my friend had warned me that there were budget cuts and cut episodes and w/e, and obviously I'm sad there's no third season to look forward to but I still really liked the ending and if I hadn't been told there was anything up with the season I don't think I'd have guessed!! They're safe and they're together and they just get to be Ed and Stede now :')

my friend did warn me I probably wouldn't like where they took Izzy in season 2 and...they were right akhgaskfj, it wasn't bad or anything and I liked that Izzy apologized at the end and stopped being so shitty to everyone but I just couldn't get past what he did to Ed in season 1. Plus he just didn't feel the same when he wasn't being weird all the time 😔. I didn't really like Jim's line about how "he was Ed's friend," like Jim. my friend. WAS HE LMAO my friends don't usually call the British Navy on me and stab my boyfriend

on that note though I made the mistake of logging onto Twitter for the first time in like two years to see what people were saying after I watched season 1, and I got a bit worried when I saw people saying that Ed's actions in season 2 made him irredeemable. But uh. He told them to eat cake and then made them kill him, it sucked but I was expecting way worse asksksksgk, I just felt bad for Ed honestly (which I think was intended obviously)

I am so picky with TV shows but everything about OFMD was just so fucking GOOD! The writing, the acting, the cinematography - everyone came into this show to do A GOOD JOB and it SHOWS

STEDE BONNET IS MY BEST FRIEND look at how far he came!!! He was so scared to even talk about running away with Ed in season 1 but now he's all in too 🥹🥹🥹

and I know I already said this but if you told me ten years ago my new favorite show would be one that was entirely about the central gay couple and they canonically kiss and have sex and love each other I wouldn't believe you!!! THIS SHOW IS SO GOOD

OKAY I'm sure I've got more to yell about later but that's my thoughts for now and I wanted to make a post so people know I'm not a bot alkghalkkj, if you like OFMD and love Ed and Stede too let's be friends!!!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

interaction with mama or papa leech (or both) please!

yuu was walking down the hallway along with jade and floyd, exchanging stories of recent happenings before it was interrupted by the sound of someone calling out to them.

"jade! floyd!"

by the looks of the twins' excited expressions and the occasion of family day, they connected the dots that it must be their parents and swiftly hid behind one of the brothers before the person came into view, trying to remove their own presence. although jade had clarified that they had a normal family business, they can't help but get nervous and perhaps a bit frightened, especially with how the leech's definition of "normal" is quite... questionable. maybe if they're lucky, they can make a run for it before they start to take notice...

(i hope i did this right!)

Family means Nobody is Left Behind or Forgotten.

“Mother and father.”

“Mom!! Pops!!”

You hesitantly peered out from behind the twins. Two lanky figures towered over you, as imposing as skyscrapers.

Mr. Leech was stone-faced, skin slightly grooved like a rock carved by the crashing waves, teal hair streaked with black slicked back with gel. His eyes were like beacons of light searching in the night--sharp, discerning. He wore a smart pinstriped suit, polished shoes, and gloves, reminding you of an older Jade.

Mrs. Leech's lithe form was wrapped in an off-the-shoulder sun dress, the slit of it riding halfway up her thigh, skirt spilling into a waterfall of gathered tulle. A string of creamy pearls--simple, understated--drapes across her collar. Her wide brim hat shaded her face, but you could still admire how she had expertly painted her lips and eyes, how her hair fell in a loose wave over one shoulder. She was like Floyd, mixing an impeccable fashion sense with a slight hint of danger.

When Mrs. Leech spotted her sons, she charged at them at a speed that was shocking for a woman in high heels. She threw her arms around Jade and Floyd, pulling them in for a tight hug.

"My babies!! I've missed you so much, darlings," she gushed. "How are classes? How are clubs? You must tell me everything...!"

“It’s wonderful to see you as well. We have much to catch up on.”

“Ehehehe~ Mom? you’re squeezin’ me so hard! Watch out, cuz I’ll get’cha back!!”

Mr. Leech cleared his throat. "Pardon the interruption, but..." His eyes cut to you—no longer concealed by the twins—and you froze, pinned in place by his stern gaze. “It seems we have a stranger in our midst. Jade and Floyd's... friendly acquaintance, I presume."

Mrs. Leech released her children. “Just a moment, dear!!”

The giantess appeared before you, her shadow larger than life. You managed a single shaky step backwards before her claw-like nails dug into you.

“Ah, mom went right to work,” Floyd said in a singsong.

“Do stay still,” Jade advised you. “It will make the process go by much more quickly.”

J-Just what is going to happen to me?!

Mrs. Leech’s hands ran the length of your body and its crevices. She never lingered in one spot. Pat, pat, pat, then onto the next area.

A full body pat-down?!

“All clear,” Mrs. Leech called to her husband.

“Excellent. That is a relief." Mr. Leech adjusted his tie and offered a wane smile. "Excuse us. We're in the habit of running through a series of safety protocols before receiving guests. Unfortunately, it's terribly inefficient to carry out in a public setting." He paused. "... How do you feel about signing nondisclosure agreements?"

"N-Nondisclosure agreements?!"

"Honey, you're going to terrify the poor thing," Mrs. Leech tutted--but she was giggling faintly as though she had just heard a witty joke. "Don't worry. My husband can be a very gentle man."

D-Don't that imply he also has the capacity to be very ungentle?!

"E-Erm..." You worriedly glanced at the twins, who were smirking (but, you had noticed, not actually intervening).

"What does your family do, anyway?" you once asked Jade.

He had taped a finger to his lips and mysteriously answered, "They simply run an independent business that dabbles in a bit of everything. Nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you."

"Some help here, guys?" you whimpered.

"Sorry, not much we can do," Floyd responded with a (very unhelpful) shrug. "Dad's got his stuffy processes. No one can get in the way of those."

"I-I'm not going to be roped into making as blood pact, am I?!"

"Blood pact? My, what an active imagination you have." Jade chuckled. "I believe I have informed you before that our family business is nothing out of the ordinary."

"Frankly, I'm not sure I believe you anymore!"

"Oh my~ Did you hear that, dear?" Mrs. Leech grabbed her husband by the arm. "It sounds as though Jade and Floyd's friend doesn't trust us."

"Indeed." He was smiling, but it did not fully reach his eyes. "It would be a shame if we allowed them to walk away with the wrong impression of our happy little family."

"Fufufu... We'll have to correct that, won't we?"

[beneathsilverstars]

A lot of people headcanon that Siffrin was something around 12-14 when the island disappeared, which does make sense. But it’s common enough fanon that I wanted to go back and figure out what’s actually canon!

Lots of evidence and math under the cut, including various things to consider when creating your own hc timeline, but tl;dr:

If we stick to only textual canon, then Siffrin only needs to have been old enough to row a boat, which I would guess to be 6-8. If we take into account the ranges id5 gave for everyone’s ages during canon, he theoretically could’ve been anywhere from 6-25 when the island disappeared. Or if we adhere to everything id5 has said, then he was a “teen” when it happened, so, 13-19.

Siffrin: I ran away from home once! I just didn't want to eat my veggies. And so I took our boat! Got to the beach, rowed away from the shore a bit. I was going to come back right away, I just wanted to scare my parents a bit! I started to row back towards the shore... And then, I...

People often assumes this means Siffrin was fairly young when they left. However, that relies on two assumptions, which are fairly reasonable, sure, but assumptions nonetheless: that they were young when this happened, and that this is when the island disappeared.

While throwing tantrums over vegetables is a stereotypically childish activity, chafing at strict or even well-meaning rules doesn’t belong exclusively to children. There are parents who continue treating their kids the same way even as they grow into teens and even full adults, before they move out or even just while they visit. Which is very frustrating for the kid! So imo it would make perfect sense for a teenager or even a young adult to go, “I can’t believe my parent is still trying to control what I eat like I’m a blinding 10 year old. If they won’t treat me like an adult at home, maybe I’ll prove my independence by leaving for a bit!”

It’s also possible that the event this dialogue refers to ended with Siffrin returning safely home! It’s fun to say that his story trailed off at the moment that the island was forgotten, but it’s possible he only stopped the retelling there because the curse kicked in, just like it would for any childhood memory. Maybe he didn’t get cut off from the island till he ran away for a second time. Maybe he was just on a regular, fully-sanctioned outing when it happened. Maybe he was even with other people. Who knows! Siffrin sure doesn’t!

(Edit: It’s word of god canon that the veggie event was the island’s disappearance, but it doesn’t necessarily affect our timeline anyway.)

I think the only thing this story proves is that Siffrin didn’t leave the island until after they were old enough to row the family boat. Unfortunately I don’t know for sure how old that would be. I did some research and found a couple posts about 6-7 year olds learning how to row, but one of them was using an inflatable raft, and the other was on a rowing team, so I don’t know how the difficulty compares. Young children really are quite good at picking up their parents’ hobbies, so I think even a 4-5 year old could learn how, but they may not be physically capable of handling an adult-size boat. It really comes down to a question of core strength / endurance. Found some posts saying the weight of the boat doesn’t matter as much as the weight of the oars, though, so maybe old fashioned boat vs modern inflatable raft doesn’t matter that much…? So maybe it would be possible for a child to row a small wooden skiff at around age 6-8. Probably not for long, but that just makes it all the more realistic for them to drift farther than they meant to and then struggle to return to shore.

So: Siffrin was at least 6-8 when they left!

Bonnie: I think my village was really close to it!!! My sister said it was all everyone could talk about for weeks!!!

If we assume “my village” means Bambouche, the island disappearance would have to be after Nille ran away with Bonnie, but still long enough ago that Bonnie doesn’t remember it directly. If we define “preteen” as age 10-12, then the longest ago this could possibly be would be 12 years. On the other side, I think it’s reasonable for a 10 year old to not remember a major (but personally irrelevant) event that happened when they were 6, meaning the closest it could be is 4 years ago.

If we follow WoG (word of god) age ranges, then Siffrin is in their “mid to late 20s”, which I’ll define as 24-29. Subtracting our 4-12 years ago range for the island’s disappearance, Siffrin could’ve been at youngest 12-17 and at oldest 20-25. If we stick to only TC (textual canon), I think one could interpret Siffrin as anywhere from 18-35, which would mean they were at youngest 6-23 and at oldest 14-31.

Of course, “my village” could also mean wherever Bonnie and Nille lived before running away. I think the youngest age at which it’s likely for an adult to remember a personally-irrelevant event from their childhood is maybe 5. Nille’s WoG age range is “late teens to early 20s”, which I would define as 16-23, which means the disappearance could be 11-18 years ago. Combining this with our 4-12 range gives us 4-18, meaning WoG Siffrin could have been at youngest 6-11 and at oldest 20-25.

But if we’re only going off of TC, we can say Nille’s as old as we want, so the disappearance just has to be at least 4 years ago for Bonnie to not directly remember.

Isabeau: This article says there's no record of him anywhere... Up until he appeared out of thin air sometime in his adulthood. Looks like he lived in the city of Corbeaux for a few years before he became the King...

According to the change god statue exposition cutscene, the King started his rampage “almost a year ago now”. The way Isabeau says the bit about Corbeaux kind of implies that the King lived other places before that, but not to the point that it’s unreasonable to say he didn’t. So if we define “a few” as 2-4, then the soonest the king could’ve appeared is 3-5 years ago, meaning the island disappeared at least 3 years ago. We already said it has to be at least 4 years ago, so this doesn’t change our math.

How old were Nille and Bonnie when they ran away? How old was Sif when their home got zapped?

id5: Both were teens.

Womp womp, there it is. WoG says 13-19!

But while we’re here, here’s a summary of everything you might want to consider while creating your timeline:

Siffrin must have been at least old enough to row a boat. I’m not an expert in boats but I think it’s reasonable for a kid to be capable of rowing at age 6+, but a 6-8 year old may struggle to maneuver the oars of an adult-sized boat, and wouldn’t be able to row very hard or for very long. Doesn’t necessarily take much effort to get far enough for waves and currents to take you farther, though.

It’s WoG that the veggie event is the island’s disappearance, but if you’re going off of TC, the disappearance could have happened later instead. And a dramatic disagreement over veggies could theoretically happen at any age! Its causes could also range from rather practical (Siffrin is extremely picky and his parents are worried about his health) to pure power struggle (Siffrin just wants more choice in what he eats but his parents just want him to follow the rules they’ve set).

Since the King lived in Corbeaux for “a few” years before his nearly-a-year-long rampage, the island must have disappeared at least 3 years ago.

Since Bonnie remembers Nille telling them about the gossip surrounding the island’s disappearance, I doubt they would’ve forgotten the gossip itself if it had happened somewhat recently. (I think it must have been at least 4 years ago.)

If Bonnie’s reference to “my village” means Bambouche, the disappearance must have occurred after Nille ran away with them.

If Bonnie’s reference to “my village” means wherever they lived with Nille before running away, then the disappearance could be before Bonnie was born. But it would still have to be when Nille was old enough to pay attention to the gossip and remember it for a while. (I think she must have been at least 5 years old when it happened.)

According to id5, Siffrin is in their mid-to-late twenties during the game, and Nille is in their late teens to early twenties.

According to id5, Siffrin was a teen when the island disappeared, and Nille was a teen when she ran away from home.

You can do whatever you want forever, including contradicting textual canon. ^^

[rhyrhy]

“Hold me, console me and then I'll leave without a trace”

. ݁Unkissed Bruises- A.A . ݁

⤷ Pitfighter Abby! Forbidden Love x High Society

. ݁₊ . ݁⚠︎ cw: Angst, Caitvi inspired, sexual content, death/grief, based off this draft! . ݁₊

9k words- mlist

݁₊ . ݁ Once upon a time, Whitehaven and the Rookery were one. two halves of a thriving whole, a city of beautiful contrasts where differences coexisted rather than divided. The grand halls of Whitehaven stood proudly beside the winding streets of the Rookery, their people mingling, trading, sharing stories beneath the same sky.

But with time came greed, and the growing sense of hierarchy that came with seclusion. and seclusion greed came walls, not the kind built with stone, but with power and privilege. The wealthy of Whitehaven withdrew behind gilded gates, drawing an invisible line between themselves and the Rookery below. The divide deepened, fed by whispered justifications and the belief that separation was natural. That it was better.

Now, they were no longer one.

The Rookery became a place of struggle, of resilience, of those left behind to fend for themselves. It was a city of flickering lanterns and hurried footsteps, of shadowed alleyways humming with secrets. The air smelled of spice and smoke, of meals stretched to feed too many mouths, of rain-soaked stone and burning ambition. Lifestyle shaped by survival.

Whitehaven, in contrast, remained untouched, pristine, a city of towering buildings , and shimmering glass. Its streets were wide, its air perfumed with florals from large gardens. Voices carried in refined tones, syllables drawn out as if even words themselves had the luxury of time. Its people dined on delicacies, oblivious to the hunger just beyond their borders. Oil and water. Two cities, once bound together, now separated by more than just wealth. By history. By resentment. By the quiet understanding that though they still existed side by side, they had long since become worlds apart.

But When the sickness hit, most folk called it the “bug”, a constant infectious shadow that never leaves, leaving you a hollow version of the person you once were. It’s been contained for the most part, but its remnants linger, and those who fell to it never stray too far, no matter how high the walls around Whitehaven rise.

Your father, a respected scientist, kept you safe inside those walls. As a girl, you ran through his office, spilling coffee on important papers and giving him wide eyed apologies when he threw his hands up in frustration. Your mother, a talented caterer, made food that could heal you from the inside out. comfort in every bite. Growing up, you often found yourself perched on the window sill, watching the distant figures on the bridge, wondering about the people outside. The Rookery was rarely spoken of, but you knew why. The guilt and pride of those inside Whitehaven kept it at a distance, as did the stories of struggle that slipped through the faint cracks when the walls opened for supply runs.

You’d ventured outside the walls a few times, as a young woman, but you always returned to the duties and comforts inside. Letting that curiosity slip away in favor of the life you had. After all, those people had their own way of living. They weren’t helpless.

But little did you know, three-four years ago on Celestial Day; the city’s grandest holiday, marking the “enlightenment” of Whitehaven’s founders, would bring a taste of the Rookery right to your feet.

And she was just on the other side of those said walls. Staring right back. A younger Abby sat on the rooftop of the abandoned store, half listening to her friends beside her.

Abby knew ‘wallflowers,’ aka those who lived within WhiteHaven who turned their nose up at people who had lint on their clothes, ripped not by accident but by fashion, and looked down on those who didn’t. It was bullshit, honestly. Everyone would have the same fate if a cure wasn't found in the next 10 years for the bug. No gold or shiny shoes would save you when you were on your deathbed, lips cracked, eyes glossed over.

It was terrifying. The kind of thing that made you want to pray even if you didn’t believe. For some kind of hope.

Abby’s father, Jerry was a respected figure here, someone who people looked to for guidance. A man of science himself, just with the resources he could scrape together. She’d warn him to be careful; the last thing she needed was to lose her rock. The same man she had to beg to call her Abby; now, she was too old for ‘Abigail’. Made her feel like she was still in pigtails. 

But there’s always sun after the storm, and for her? That’s Sidekick, Manny. And the definition of loyalty, Nora, is also from The Rookery; those down here were like family.

The kind of friends you could raid a junkyard and turn it into a mini shooting range. jumping off the large bridge into the blue waters below. Or—watching them do that as she’s terrified of heights. But it looked fun. Just…from a distance. That was her life.

. ݁₊ . ݁ in Whitehaven, on celestial day. It was ice sculptures, crystal glasses filled with drinks Abby couldn’t even pronounce, and so much food that even she knew she wouldn’t be able to try it all. Everything smelled like money. Everything from the banners to accents was navy blue, white, and gold, as polished as the people in attendance. Outside the walls, in the Rookery, people had their own ways of celebrating.

Officials claimed the walls of Whitehaven were meant to protect against crime and disease, but Abby knew better. They weren’t meant to keep anything out. They were meant to keep people like her from getting in. The suffrage these people would only hear about in passing.

The Rookery was her home. Over that broken bridge between the city’s. cracked sidewalks, flickering streetlights, and a kind of toughness where dirty looks were as good as compliments. But here? But here? In prissy Whitehaven, it was nothing like it. Everything was quiet, pristine, and expensive. And her borrowed dress shirt felt like a straitjacket. Suffocating even.

Noses pointed in the air. Ironed shirts, pleated skirts, and laughs that screamed financial stability. That was the first thing Abby noticed. That, and how fucking uncomfortable she felt standing in the middle of it all. She shifted against the stiff fabric, resisting the urge to roll her shoulders. “Remind me why I’m here again?” she muttered, just loud enough for Nora to hear. Nora, having family in Whitehaven despite the tension, would drag her friends to explore the city of bright and white across the bridge. 

“Because I refuse to suffer alone,” Nora answered smoothly, scanning the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged somewhat. “And because my parents think dragging me to these things will make me ‘appreciate fine company.’ I think.” 

Abby groaned, shifting her plate of food to her other hand. It was an unsorted mess of expensive appetizers and tiny, overly decorated portions that tasted too fancy for their own good. Nora glanced down at Abby’s plate and wrinkled her nose. “Are you seriously eating caviar with… a breadstick?”

Abby shrugged, chewing the piece in her mouth. “What? I’m hungry.” She trailed off. Before Nora could get another jab in, Abby’s attention flickered across the room. She didn’t even realize she’d stopped mid-bite until Nora followed her gaze. A girl around their age, working the room. Now she belonged here.

Nora turned back to her curiously. “So that’s what’s got you all quiet.”

Abby snapped out of it, rolling her shoulder. “What?” “The one with the stick up her ass?”  Abby turned back to look at you. Standing near the center of the venue, posture straight, wearing something white and elegant. Talking to the right people, nodding at the right times. Everything about you looked polished. put together in a way that made Abby’s hands twitch at her sides, suddenly way too aware of the bandages she’d wrapped around them earlier that day out of habit.

She scoffed, tearing her eyes away. “She’s… okay, I guess.”

“Okay?” Nora snorted. “Try again.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Fine. She’s hot. Are you happy?”

“Absolutely,” Nora grinned. She swore she was some kind of matchmaker. But the last time her friend set her up, she vowed to never let her meddle in her love life again.

Abby shook her head, as she decided it was best to step away before Nora found more ways to get under her skin. She needed an escape, just for a moment. Under the guise of grabbing another drink, she turned on her heel and strolled toward the kitchen, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. The air was thick with laughter and the faint hum of conversation, the warmth of bodies packed into the space making it easy to disappear. As she moved, she brushed shoulders with strangers, their faces blurring into the background. A murmur of apology here, a fleeting glance there. But she barely registered any of it. She just needed a second. A breath. A chance to shake off whatever it was that had settled in her chest.

And then there you were again. You weren’t out in the crowd anymore. Instead, you were standing by the catering setup, arms crossed, giving one of the kitchen staff a very unimpressed look. 

“No, seriously,” you said, exasperated. “What’s the point of me making a list of allergens if you’re not going to follow it?”

The staff member stammered an apology, but you barely heard it, too busy scanning the trays of hors d’oeuvres for any more potential disasters. This day was important. not just for the city, but for you and your mother. Celestial Day was more than just an extravagant celebration. it was a chance to prove your worth, to show the officials that you belonged inside these walls, that your family’s place here wasn’t just a courtesy. At all. One wrong dish, one guest sent into an allergy attack, and it would be a catastrophe. A stain on your mother’s reputation, on yours. Your grip tightened on the notepad in your hand as you exhaled sharply. There was no room for mistakes today. You earned your keep in these walls.

Abby leaned against the doorway, amusement tugging at her lips. Yeah, she was right about the stick-up-your-ass comment.  But she wasn’t expecting to find it this entertaining. The way you talked with your hands. Politely ripping them a new one. She let out a small laugh at something you said louder than intended. You turned at the sound, eyes landing on her. And for the first time that night, or ever, Abby actually felt like she was being looked at.

Taking in the slightly wrinkled button-up, the way she wasn’t quite standing like she belonged here, the sharpness of her jaw, the broadness of her shoulders. her hair not neatly tucked out of her face. Your expression shifted just slightly, curiosity and…something else. You cleared your throat and spoke. 

“Are you lost?” you asked, tilting your head.

She shrugged, glancing over your outfit. “Should I be?” Abby countered, pushing off the doorway and stepping closer.

You returned her once-over. “You just don’t seem like the type to frequent places with, hm… ice sculptures.” That sounded worse than instead, mentally kicking yourself.

“Mhm. And you don’t seem like the type to chew out waitstaff at over-the-top events.” She glanced behind you at the staff, remaking something she wouldn’t eat.

You exhaled sharply, almost a laugh. “Well, they had one job.”

Abby held back a laugh. “Aw, Tragic.”

That earned her a slow, assessing look that made her fingers twitch again. She could see it now, past the perfectly curated exterior. The way your eyes gleamed when challenged. The way you weren’t as prim and proper as she expected you to be. Watching your face as you continued on the conversation. She couldn’t help but like it. And maybe she really liked the way your breath caught just slightly when she leaned in a little closer. Holding her eye contact like you were trying to communicate something, whether it was intentional or not. It was there. 

“Are you always this uptight?” Abby asked, voice lowering into something that made your heart race. You weren’t sure if she was testing you or teasing you. Maybe both.

You opened your mouth to respond, not sure how to. But before you could, a microphone crackled into the background. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we could have your attention for a moment—” your father’s voice pulling you back. Your head snapped toward the sound. your parents. About to give some speech to the crowd. You let out a small sigh of disappointment, before glancing back at the other girl.

“You should get back,” Abby said, smirking. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you ran off with the hired help.”

“Good idea, really wouldn’t want that.” Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, carrying you back into the sea of white and gold, but your head felt lighter, buzzing with something unfamiliar. You weren’t sure why it took more effort than usual to turn away. Why you had to smacking yourself not to glance back.

Abby, on the other had, didn’t look away. She stood there, arms crossed, watching as you disappeared into the crowd. Her brow furrowed slightly, lips pressed together as if she were trying to make sense of something. You weren’t what she expected. Not even close. She replayed the conversation in her head, the way you had looked at her, the slight hitch in your breath when she stepped closer. The way her own stomach had twisted in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

With a slow exhale, she rolled her shoulders, forcing the thoughts away before they took root. Whatever that was, it didn’t matter. At least, that’s what she told herself as she finally turned back toward Nora. But even as she walked away, that faint flutter in her chest refused to settle.

Nora took one look at her and groaned dramatically. “Oh, no. You’re making that face.”

“What face?” She huffed, knowing exactly what she was talking about.

“The ‘I suddenly don’t mind the stick’ face.”

Abby rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “Maybe,” she said, biting back a smirk. “…Maybe I don’t.”

. ݁₊ . ݁ She never got your name that night, but she wouldn’t forget a face like that. those eyes full of curiosity, watching her, trying so hard to keep composure. There was something in the way you looked at her, like you were trying to figure her out, Abby almost admired the effort. Almost. She hated that she was so focused on you even with that sudden spike of the bug in the background.

She’d learned your name later, after prying it out of Nora, who had way too much fun making her suffer for it. Abby endured every teasing remark, every knowing grin, all for that small detail about you. God, did that make her desperate or just determined?

She liked you. A girl she barely knew. A wallflower, of all people. But she saw something beneath the polish, the grace the way you bit back at her, that sass behind your words. That familiar defiance. She wasn’t wrong about you. That much was clear when she caught sight of you near the bridge with Nora. Abby had no reason to stop. But she did anyway. That was only confirmed when she caught sight of you near the bridge with Nora. Abby had no reason to stop, but she did anyway. She knew you two knew each other, but something about the way you spoke, the way you glanced around like you didn’t want to be seen, made her think, no, know the conversation was about her. What did you want with her.

The next meeting wasn’t an accident. You made sure of that.

Late-night meetups just beyond the Whitehaven gates became routine, standing in the quiet where the city’s golden glow didn’t quite reach. It was easier in the dark—less pressure, fewer eyes. But the push and pull between you never let up. Abby kept her distance, stubborn in her refusal to be someone’s reckless experiment. And you? You stood your ground just as fiercely, unwilling to let her push you away. You were trying. Why couldn’t she see that?

This was new for you too. sneaking out, breaking rules that had never been yours to bend, just for the chance to see her. To talk. To exist in a space that wasn’t preordained by duty or expectation. It wasn’t about proving a point, or defying the invisible lines drawn between your worlds. It was about her. About this thing between you that neither of you could quite name.

And sure enough, it all came to a head one night. too much tension, too many words left unsaid, both of you too frustrated, with each other, with yourselves, to keep pretending there wasn’t something more. Abby huffed, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was holding herself together. “What—what is this? The wall’s not enough for you?” She was fighting herself more than she was fighting you. But that didn’t make it any easier.

You had come to see her, and things had been fine.until it got a little too close, a little too handsy. Until she suddenly pulled away, realizing what she was doing and who she was doing it with. “It’s not about that,” you sighed.

“Then what. Is. It,” she challenged, voice sharp, daring you to say something that would justify all of this. That would clear up what hadn’t been said outright.

But you didn’t say anything.

Instead, you stepped closer. Close enough that Abby could see the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, the way your fingers twitched at your sides like you were fighting yourself. She could feel your breath, shallow and unsteady, and for once, she didn’t know if she wanted you to pull away or get even closer. Abby’s jaw tensed, a muscle feathering beneath her skin as she forced herself to stay still, waiting. Seeing if you’d do it for her. Your gaze flickered down—to her lips, to the way her fingers curled into fists at her sides—before snapping back up. Like you were making a decision you couldn’t take back.

Then, without another word, you kissed her. It wasn’t hesitant, wasn’t careful. It was a decision. A line crossed. Abby barely had time to react before instinct took over. Before her hands found your waist, pulling you in like she’d been waiting for this longer than she’d ever admit. The tension between you-the late nights, the teasing, the push and pull, the distance she kept forcing-it all crumbled in an instant.

It was game over. Her fingers dug into your sides, desperate, like she was anchoring herself to this-to you. Your hand slipped into her hair, tugging slightly, and she groaned against your lips, her resolve snapping. She pressed harder, kissed you deeper, as if trying to make up for every second she'd spent pretending this wasn't exactly what she wanted.

By the time you pulled back, your breath was shallow, your forehead resting against hers. "That clear it up?" you asked, voice still breathless, a grin tugging at your lips.

Abby's hands stayed firm on your waist, thumbs tracing absentminded circles against your skin. She let out a short, breathless laugh, her lips still hovering over yours. "Might have to do it again," she murmured, tilting her head slightly, her lips barely brushing against yours. "Just to be sure."

. ݁₊ . ݁ That hesitation melted away after that. Late-night meetings turned into something more. something neither of you named but both understood. It was unspoken but ever-present, settling into the quiet moments between teasing and stolen touches. You fixing her posture when she slouched, Abby shoving some Rookery dish at you, practically spoon-feeding it while you tried not to gag. It was different, the good kind of different. The kind that made Abby actually do something with her hair in the mornings, especially if she knew she’d be seeing you.

And then one night, caught up in the warmth of her touch, your heart hammering against your ribs, you blurted it out before you could think better of it.

“I—want… mm, to be together. officially.” The words tumbled out, breathless, as Abby kissed her way down to your shoulder.

She froze for a beat before grinning against your skin. “Yeah? Not too scrappy for you, Miss Perfect?” She was always testing, always pushing, her lips traveling lower, her hands steady on your hips. That teasing smirk, the one that made your knees weak, stayed in place even as her eyes flicked up to meet yours.

You rolled your eyes, a breathy laugh slipping out, even as your fingers curled into the sheets. “Hah—mm. No. I like… ‘scrappy.’ Your version of it, I mean.”

Abby grinned. “I’ll take it.” Her fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours.

. ݁₊ . ݁ As much as Abby wanted to focus on you, your smile, the way you smelled when you hugged her. there was something else looming. The bug wasn’t highly contagious, but when you were a scientist, trying to find some kind of cure, exposure was inevitable. And for Jerry, it had finally caught up to him. Despite her pleas for him to be careful. All her years and love.

Abby felt her heart plummet.

It was a sensation she wasn’t prepared for. the kind that stole the air from her lungs, that made her chest feel like it was caving in. One moment, she was standing. The next, she was falling, even though her feet never left the ground. Memories rushed in like a flood she couldn’t hold back. The sound of his laugh warm, familiar, something she had taken for granted. The way his hand would ruffle her hair, even when she grumbled about it, pretending to be annoyed. The way he’d look at her, eyes full of certainty, and tell her she’d be okay, even when the world around them wasn’t.

She blinked rapidly, but it didn’t stop the sting behind her eyes, the blur creeping into her vision. Her breath came faster, shorter, and suddenly, standing still wasn’t an option. She had to move.

Her feet carried her before she even decided where she was going, but she already knew. You. You were the only face she wanted to see right now. The only solid thing in a world that suddenly felt too vulnerable, too uncertain. You were okay. Alive. Real.

And you wouldn’t leave. You couldn’t. She wouldn’t let you.

The sound of rapid knocking on your window near the dresser jolted you awake. Your heart jumped , but the second the haze of sleep lifted, you knew who it was. Groaning, you swung your legs over the bed, already preparing to scold her for coming unannounced. Someone could’ve seen her. or worse, thought she was breaking in. Sneaking her into town was only a good idea in the daylight, when there were too many people to notice someone who didn’t belong.

Still, when you reached the window and found her standing there, cheeks stained, breath trembling, all the irritation drained from you.

You didn’t ask any questions. You just pulled her inside, wrapping your arms around her. She melted into you, gripping the back of your shirt like she was afraid you’d disappear if she let go. You felt her shudder, her breaths uneven against your shoulder. You wanted to ask, but you already knew. The spike in deaths recently, it had to be that. Another loss. Another name added to the ever-growing list of people Abby had loved and lost. And you? You were still here. You squeezed your eyes shut, holding her tighter. There was something you weren’t telling her. A possibility. A thread of hope so thin it barely held its shape, but it was something.

Your father’s research had been extensive, more than most people knew. The world had given up on finding a solution, but he hadn’t. While officials praised his work publicly, behind closed doors, they questioned his methods, his choices—the ethical lines he had nearly crossed. You weren’t supposed to see most of it. But you had.

Late nights spent skimming through his notes, his private journals, his failed trials, looking for anything. And buried beneath the endless calculations, molecular breakdowns, and abandoned compounds, there was Potential. Not a cure. Not yet. But the closest thing to progress anyone had made in years. A formula that had almost worked before it collapsed under its own instability. Abby didn’t know. And you weren’t sure if you’d ever tell her. What good would it do? Hope was dangerous in a world like this. It could lift you up, make you believe, and then drop you from heights so cruelly high you’d never land on your feet again.

She had already lost so much. You’d seen the way she carried her grief. like a wound that refused to heal, an ache she never spoke about but always felt. You wanted to tell her, to give her something to hold on to, but what if you were wrong? What if it led to nothing?

You couldn’t do that to her. So you stayed quiet. Held her like you weren’t keeping something from her. Like you weren’t already pulling away, one unspoken truth at a time. And when she finally whispered, “I don’t want to lose you, too,” you just pressed your lips to her golden brown hair, forcing a smile she couldn’t see.

“Never,” you murmured. “I’m here. I’m right here,” you whispered, one hand cradling the back of her head, holding her as if you could carry her grief with her.

. ݁₊ . ݁ That was the first time of many she’d sneak in. It started small—meeting in hidden spots, then slipping past Whitehaven’s walls under cover of darkness. She learned more about your world—how effortless everything seemed, how trapped you felt in it. And in return, you got glimpses of hers. Stories of the Rookery, of scraped knees and hunger, of nights spent listening to her father’s voice, now just an echo. The seasons passed, watching the summer fun beat down, the fall leaves orange snd red, the flowers blooming, to the snow falling. You were right there, by her side through one of the in toughest times in her life.

“Shh, you’ll get us caught,” you giggled, pulling her hand as one of the maids nearly spotted you both sneaking out of the kitchen.

Abby only grinned, unfazed. “Please. I’ve been doing this for what—a year? We would’ve been caught by now.”

And later that night; Abby curled beside you, watching as you slept, her heart swelling with quiet adoration. She loved you. She loved this. even if it was little more than a secret. Privacy was good. Not everything needed to be known. People had a way of ruining things once curiosity got the better of them.

And Abby, unfortunately, wasn’t exempt from it.

She pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before slipping out of bed, stretching as she padded toward the bathroom. But instead of returning to you, she let herself wander. The house was too big, warm in a way the Rookery never was. The towering windows, the gilded edges of every frame, the polished floors that barely made a sound beneath her socked feet.

Her fingers brushed over a portrait on the wall you and your family, untouched by the world beyond the walls. The navy of your dress reminded her of the night she met you. So prim and proper, the way you crossed your legs, the soft, pardon? instead of a blunt what?. the smallest details about you, the ones she once teased, were the ones she had grown to love the most. A wallflower she’d met grow its vines over her own.

But as she moved past your father’s office, that warmth inside her chest twisted into something else entirely.

A stack of papers lay scattered across the polished desk, your families last name stamped in the corner. And there, written in stark black and red ink, were the words that stopped her cold:

“Hypothesis for a Potential Cure.”

Her stomach fell. A cure?

Her fingers twitched at her sides before she stepped forward, pushing the heavy oak door open just enough to let the golden glow of the fireplace illuminate the papers. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she reached out, flipping through the documents, her movements hesitant at first, then completely desperate. This had been here. All this time. This research, this possibility. Did you know?

Abby’s pulse filled her ears. She didn’t think, she just grabbed as many pages as she could and turned, her feet carrying her back to your room, to you. She shook you awake with little patience. You weren’t sure what she was rambling about.

“I mean this—this is something, right? I just—” Her words stumbled out in a rush as you blinked up at her, groggy and confused.

Then you saw the papers in her hands. Your stomach twisted into a million knots. “Abby, it’s..that’s not what you think.” Your voice was quiet, but it didn’t soothe anything.

“Wait. You knew?” Abby snapped her head toward you, her voice sharp, almost disbelieving. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Her breath hitched, her grip tightening on the papers as if she needed to steady herself.

“You… you held me that night,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “And you knew.” She held the papers up, blue eyes burning into you. “About this?”

Now, The room felt smaller, suffocating even. You sat up, pulling the sheets around you, trying to keep your voice even. “Listen to me. it’s just a thesis. A theory. My father isn’t even close to a cure.”But Abby wasn’t listening. She couldn’t.

“A theory is better than nothing,” she snapped, her voice cracking. “Do you know what we’d give for even a sliver of hope? My dad—he died for nothing while you’ve been sitting on this?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay calm. “It’s not that simple, Abby. A cure isn’t just something you throw into the world. It could backfire, mutate, make things worse—”

Abby let out a small laugh. “Worse than what? Watching everyone rot outside your perfect fucking walls?”

The words hit like a slap. Your jaw clenched, fingers digging into the sheets as you forced yourself to breathe. “We have to be careful.” Abby was still standing there, fists clenched, jaw tight, like she was forcing herself not to shake. The papers lay scattered on the floor between you, proof of what had been hidden, proof of everything that now stood between you. But you weren’t ready to let her go.

“Abby, please,” you stepped forward, reaching for her, but she flinched. just barely, but enough that you froze. Her hand raised up near her shoulder like she couldn’t bare you touching her.

“No.” Abby stepped back. “You have to be careful. Because you live up here. Because it’s not your people dying.” The silence that followed was deafening. Abby wanted you to fight her on this. She wanted you to say, fuck the risks, to agree that something anything. was worth trying. To prove you were different. But you didn’t. You stayed silent. And that silence was what destroyed her.

“You.” Your voice cracked, but you kept going. “You are my people, Abby.”

Abby sucked in a sharp breath. You watched her throat bob, her fingers twitch, like she wanted to believe you, like she wanted to hold onto it, onto you. Onto us. But the moment passed. She exhaled, slow and steady, pressing her lips together like she was biting back words she couldn’t afford to say. Then, finally, she shook her head.

“No, I’m not,” she whispered. “Not anymore. Not when you are making me choose between you and them,” she said, voice hoarse, like the fight had already drained her. “Because I can’t do that. I won’t.”

The night had started like any other. And ended in the worst way possible. She couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe you were the one person she let herself trust. had known. Had held her. Had whispered reassurances while keeping something this big from her. Your voice barely registered as she grabbed her shoes, her movements sharp and hurried. She turned toward the door without another word, slipping into the dim hallway, the only light guiding her the pale silver glow of the moon.

You sat there, frozen, the strap of your nightgown slipping off your shoulder, sheets pooling around you, growing colder by the second. And then she was gone.

. ݁₊ . ݁ Weeks had passed since you last saw Abby, and the ache in your chest wouldn’t let you be. You had to see her again. You had to fix this. The rain fell in sheets, cold and relentless, as if the world itself was telling you to turn back. But you couldn’t. Not when there was so much left unsaid.

The city’s glow felt miles away as you approached the edge of Whitehaven’s borders. The place where the city’s light couldn’t quite reach, the place where it all began, and now, where it would end. The gap between you two had stretched farther than you could have imagined, and with every step closer, you could feel that distance growing. She saw you coming, but Abby didn’t turn to face you. No acknowledgment. No greeting. Just the sound of the rain, the rhythm of her breaths as she stared out at the empty space before her.

“Abby,” you said, your voice shaking with desperation. “Please, you have to stop this.” You could feel your hands trembling, the rain mingling with the sweat on your palms. “This hope you’re clinging to…it’s dangerous. People are dying. My father’s work wasn’t some miracle cure. It was just a theory, one that never even had the chance to be tested.” You stepped forward, reaching out, but she didn’t budge. You gripped her arms, trying to make her see reason, trying to stop the madness before it consumed her. “You can’t give people false hope. Not after everything we’ve already lost.”

Her eyes remained forward, a steel edge to her gaze. It was like your words couldn’t reach her, like you weren’t even speaking the same language anymore. She didn’t even flinch, her jaw set tight with defiance. “I’m not giving them false hope,” she said, her voice strained but firm, as if she was holding on to every word just to stay grounded. “I’m giving them something to hold on to.” She motioned toward the far-off horizon, the rain blurring everything. “Hope is all we have left. You can’t take that away from them.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest as the weight of her words crashed over you. This wasn’t what you wanted. You just wanted her to understand. your voice cracking, pleading with her, “you don’t get it. I can’t be the one to bring that hope. Not when it’s not real.” You could feel your frustration spilling out, every ounce of anger and sorrow mixing. “You’re fighting a battle you can’t win. It’ll tear you apart.”

She shook her head, the rain soaking her hair, her face hardening in a way you hadn’t seen before. But beneath her anger, there was fear. fear of losing everything. Fear of facing the truth. “You think I don’t know that?” she spat, taking a breath as if the words themselves were choking her. “You think I haven’t been trying to make sense of all this?” She looked up, gesturing to the city behind her, where once there had been dreams. “You’ve got all this. All the answers. And I’ve got nothing. Nothing but a fight.” Her voice faltered, and her gaze dropped to the ground, her shoulders slumping under the weight of it all. “And you want me to just give that up?”

There was silence between you, thick and suffocating, as the rain continued to pour. You could feel the pressure of her words crushing you. “I’m not just doing this for me,” she whispered, barely audible over the rain. But you could hear the steel in her tone. “I’m fighting for the people I’ve lost. Your people. I’m fighting for the ones who died thinking they were forgotten.” Her voice cracked on the last words, raw with emotion.

Your heart was in pieces, but the cold reality of it all stung. You wanted to fight back, to tell her that there was nothing more to fight for, that this war was over, but all you could do was look at her. Really look at her.

“I’m sorry, Abby,” you whispered, the words tasting like butter of defeat. “But you’re not going to win this. Not like this.”

Her face humed with disappointment, the kind that came when something that once seemed so sure had already fallen apart.“Then I guess this is where you— we, say goodbye,” she said quietly, almost as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Her words were a finality, a door slamming shut with no chance of being opened again. You stood frozen as she turned away, her silhouette swallowed by the night, the rain still falling relentlessly between you. The space between you had never been wider. The ache in your chest felt like it would never end.

And just like that, she was gone. Again.

. ݁₊ . ݁ Over the course of those years, time seemed to move in an endless blur. Days bled into weeks, weeks into months, until the seasons cycled in their usual pattern, but nothing felt the same. The vibrant world, once bursting with color and life, now seemed washed out, as if the sun itself had pulled away its warmth. It was as though some part of her, some crucial spark, had been drained, leaving behind a muted echo of what once was.

The holidays came and went, each one marked by the absence of someone she had once held close, the absence of something that had given her life meaning. Friends and family would smile, laugh, and carry on as if the world hadn’t shifted, but Abby couldn’t shake the hollowness that settled deep in her chest. It wasn’t just the space left by her father’s death—it was the space left by you, too. Your absence had carved a hole in her heart, one that no amount of distraction or pit fighting could fill.

The people she’d once called her own were still there, still around, but everything had changed. Manny, Nora, and Leah stayed by her side, watching with worried eyes as she slipped further away, the woman they knew turning into someone they didn’t quite recognize anymore. They tried to pull her back, to remind her of the life she had before, but she had already started losing herself in the fight, in the chaos.

The nights were the hardest. Alone, in the silence, memories of your time together would rise to the surface. Laughing over dinner, the quiet moments shared, the way her heart had raced when she was with you. Those memories were bittersweet now, tainted by the unresolved tension between them, the words left unsaid. Abby couldn’t bring herself to visit your home, to see the space where she’d once felt safe. She couldn’t bear the thought of the ghost of what they had, and yet, the thought of you lingered in the edges of her every waking moment. It wasn’t just the time that had passed; it was everything that had changed. What once felt like a solid, comforting bond had turned into something fragile, a thread she was afraid to pull on in case it unraveled everything she’d become since. The love she once felt for you wasn’t gone, but it had hollowed out, turned into a quiet, aching weight that never fully left.

For you She was missing. The curtain by the large window, the one that once overlooked her home. stayed drawn. Closed, like it could somehow keep her absence from creeping in. And for the most part, it did. Rumors of a potential cure began to swirl through the city, whispers slipping through cracks in the walls. You heard them in passing, read them in coded messages, felt them like a knife to the ribs. You never spoke about that night.

How could you?

And for that figure burnt into your memory, her father died, and there was a chance everything didn’t have to fall apart. The Rookery, once her anchor, now felt like a prison. The streets she had memorized since childhood. The ones he had walked beside her, teaching her, protecting her, felt foreign. Empty. The home they shared, the one filled with his voice and his warmth, was nothing more than walls and silence.

And you. The one person she might have turned to was nothing more than an abandoned, open string. A thread she couldn’t follow, not without unraveling completely. What happened was nothing more than an act of betrayal from the woman she loved—wanted to love.

So, she stopped trying.

With no direction, she let herself drift. And the drifting led her to the underground fights. The first time she went, it was just to blow off steam. But she found herself too immersed to stay away long. Pain made sense there. It had rules. A punch landed, and a bruise formed. A hit taken, a price paid. The fights weren’t about winning, not really. They were about feeling something: anger, exhaustion, clarity. Anything but the ache in her chest that refused to fade.

The view of Whitehaven above fueling each blow.

Manny, Nora—they tried. They watched from the sidelines and made excuses for her when she came home battered and bloody. They pulled her out of back rooms, patched her up, and told her she was better than this. But they didn’t understand.

She needed this.

She needed the weight of a fist against her ribs, the sting of split knuckles, the satisfaction of someone else’s blood on the floor. It was easier to be this. A fighter, a brute, a body in the ring. than the girl who had lost everything. More than she could bare.

. ݁₊ . ݁ And now, years later.

Her knuckles wrapped, a second skin of bandages soaked with the memory of harsh punches. The jet black hair, new and darker than before, fell messily around her face. Her back tattoo was hidden under the faded tank top, but she could feel it, the weight of the meaning of the ink on her skin. A portrait of what she’d lost. She carried it with her, always.

The pit always reeked of sweat, blood, and alcohol, or desperation. The heat pressed in from every side, a suffocating feeling. Bodies packed together, their faces lit by the lights hanging above, the heat causing a bead of sweat. It was the usual crowd, rowdy, ready for a show, but none of that mattered to Abby. She didn’t care about the noise, the smell, or the grimy underbelly of this place. She just needed the fight. To hit something, someone. Whatever idiot would be brave enough.

But she wasn’t thinking about any of that when she felt her eyes land on her.

You. Fuck

For a second, Abby froze. The noise around her blurred. She didn’t want to look, didn’t want to be caught looking. Didn’t want to meet your gaze, but before she could stop them, they were snapping toward you. You were standing across the pit, just at the edge of the crowd. There was no mistaking the way her chest tightened when their gaze locked. She hadn’t expected to see you again, not here. Not like this.

What are you doing here, in the rookery?

Her jaw clenched. She almost turned away and walked out before you noticed her, but her feet stayed planted to the spot. Abby couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this exposed. The past few months had been a blur of anger, distraction, and fights, anything to numb the hurt. But seeing you again, in a pit of all places… It felt like someone had just torn open a new wound.

Your lips moved, and for a second, Abby didn’t even hear the words. She was too busy staring, too busy wondering if this was real or if it was just some fucking dream

“New look …suits you.” You said, scanning over her. “Bit intense, though.”

Her lips twitched. Intense. Yeah, that was the word for it. She could feel the weight of her own body, every bruise, every broken piece of her, and it all felt like it was on display now.

“Yeah?” She shifted her weight, rolling a shoulder, trying to shrug off the growing pit in her stomach. “What can I say? You always said I had a thing for dramatic.”

The words crawled their way out. Like she wasn’t standing there in front of the person who had seen her at her weakest. This was fine; she doesn’t care. It doesn't matter anymore. But if she was being honest with herself… it still did. All this time later.

She crossed her arms over her chest, just to make sure her hands stayed put. Keep it together. For her. For everyone else. She couldn’t let you see how much this hurt, even after everything. Watching your eyes scan over her “bloodhound” tattoo on her forearm.

“Don’t like it?” she added, tilting her head, trying to keep the cool distance.

“Just…different is all” you said.

She rolled her eyes, a habit she knew you’d always found irritating. But that was the point, wasn’t it? To keep you at arm’s length

“Different’s good. Keeps things interesting.” Her eyes flicked to the crowd, trying to focus on anything other than you. She should walk away. Get out of here. But she found herself glued to the spot, stuck between wanting you to leave and wanting you to stay. Wanting things she couldn’t have.

"You’re staring."

“Well sorry, it’s just not everyday you see an angry oil slick walking around” You huffed at her.

She snorted, trying her best to keep her demeanor nonchalant. "Angry oil slick? Jesus, I’m gone, and that’s how you talk to me? Nice to see you again, too.” She rolled her shoulders, ignoring the pang in her chest. She could almost forget how much she missed you when you were standing right in front of her.

She hated this . The familiar sting. She hated it, and she loved it. She didn’t want to feel this way, didn’t want to let herself care. But the truth was, she still did. Even after all the fighting, all the distance, she was standing here, willing to be hurt again. Her gaze softened for a second. She wanted to say something, anything, to bridge the gap between you. To make you understand. But the words got stuck, caught between her teeth like glass. The pit was suddenly too small. Too close. She needed to get away, needed to fight, but the weight of your presence was suffocating her. You were everything she was trying to forget, and everything she couldn’t let go of.

She glanced over at the entrance, where the next fight was about to start. The lights flickered above her, the sound of the crowd growing louder, but all Abby could think about was the tension between you, the hurt that never seemed to go away.

“Just leave,” she muttered, barely audible. She didn’t know if she was talking to you or to herself. “You’re not supposed to be here.”But you didn’t leave. You stayed, and she couldn’t stop the rush of emotions that flooded her chest. Maybe it was time to stop running. Maybe it was time to face what she’d been avoiding for so long. Maybe.

“Abby,” you started, but your throat tight. “I didn’t come here to fight. I—“

“You came all the way here… just to check if I’m alright?” she interrupted, her voice cutting through the tension. There was something in her eyes, a flicker of softness she wouldn’t allow herself to fully acknowledge. She’d be lying if she said it didn’t soften something deep inside. The fact that you still cared enough to show up. Damn you for that. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t what she wanted, not anymore.

“Yes. I came here to see you. And now you’re telling me to just…go? Normally people would be appreciative, but sorry for trying!”

“Appreciative?” Abby scoffed, taking a step back, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “When did I ask you to show up here?” Her fists clenched involuntarily, the anger boiling inside her. Frustration. Resentment. It was all-consuming, and she didn’t know who she was more angry at. You for showing up, or herself for still caring. “Jesus, I don’t need someone breathing down my damn neck,” she spat, her chest heaving with each sharp breath. “I’m fine.”

“Breathing down your neck? No one held you here to talk to me.” “And you don’t need to ask. That’s what you do when you care. Still.” You could feel the words sting, but the truth cut deeper. You were tired of standing by, waiting for her to come back to you.

“Well, I don’t need your care, not anymore,” she muttered, the words harsh, even to her own ears. She hated how much she still wanted it. How much she missed you. But she couldn’t admit that, not now. “You lost that privilege a long time ago,” she finished, her voice cracking as the weight of it hit her.

You were quiet for a long time, the silence between you two oppressive. But it didn’t stay silent for long. The air was thick with the unspoken truths, both of you standing there, unwilling to be the first to break.

“And trying?” Abby’s voice shook with the force of her emotions. “You’re trying now? What, all this time later? Too little, too late.” The words wrenched from her chest like a physical blow. She couldn’t even look at you. “Where were you, huh? When I needed you the most? When I couldn’t breathe without it feeling like sandpaper in my lungs?” She clenched her fists, biting down on the tears that threatened to spill. “Where. Were. You?”

The words hung in the air like a shroud, and it was your turn to feel the weight of them. Your stomach twisted with guilt and regret, but you couldn’t let her destroy you with them. You couldn’t. Not when it felt like she was shutting you out for good.

You couldn’t keep the frustration out of your voice. “Abby, you gave me no choice! You barely looked at me that night.” Your heart was pounding. “And you’re the one who turned your back on me. I deserved more than that. I understand you’re hurting, but that doesn’t mean push me to the fucking side.”A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “So, you don’t want to talk to me after all this time? Fine. Be like that, Abbigail.” You shook your head, staring at her with a mixture of anger and hurt. “You know what, you’re right. This, you, and your constant pushing me away isn’t my problem anymore. This was stupid to think that maybe, just maybe, you’d open your mouth and talk to me.”

You looked her up and down, trying to make sense of what you were seeing. The girl you loved, the one you thought you knew… it wasn’t her anymore. “The girl I dated surely would have. But this, whoever this is?” You gestured to her. The next words ringing out into the space like a gunshot, a wake up call.

“This is definitely not her.”

The words hit Abby like a slap. She flinched, but her gaze never wavered. She wanted to respond. To tell you how much it hurt to hear you say that, to make you understand the kind of fight she was in. But the words caught in her throat. For a long moment, the tension between you could have shattered the walls around you. Abby’s breath came in shallow gasps, her chest tight, her mind racing for the right thing to say. But before she could, she heard it.

A loud crack. The unmistakable sound of something, someone, slamming into the cage nearby, the crowd roaring in excitement. Her heart hammered in her chest. The fight was starting. And for the first time in long time, Abby wasn’t sure if she wanted to fight. or run.

. ݁₊ .To stay for you, or go for herself?

Taglist babies: @grey-jedi12

[vonlycaonwife]

Hi

Could you write about living with everyone's favorite wolf guy (Von Lycaon x f!Reader)? I feel like waking up next to him or completing household work together would be so sweet/cute >\\\\< Please and thank you!

Here's to hoping you will pull him soon!!!! Don't give up <3

You understand me, I JUST WANT TO HAVE THOSE SWEET MOMENTS WITH HIM. I stuck with the waking up together idea because god the want to be in his arms is IMMENSE. Also I combined this with another who wanted a wife reader!

Edit after writing: This ended up so much shorter than what I wanted, I’m sorry. I just couldn’t figure out how to keep it going without it feeling too fillery

Warnings: none I think? Possible suggestiveness but the implications are super subtle imo

Waking up in the morning was one of your favorite times of the day. Even when the sun began to almost turn your sight red as it hit your face, or when you felt the small prickles of a cramp from sleeping in a somewhat awkward position. Yes, even with these, seeing the sleeping face of the thiren before you is what always made it worth it. 

You smiled as you felt his tail wrapped around your legs, surrounding you in fluffy warmth. A habit your husband had picked up since you first began to sleep in the same bed as him all those many years ago. The small puffs of his breath could be felt on the very top of your head, adding more to the constant realization you’ll always have of just how much bigger he is compared to you. But that never made you scared of him, in fact the wolf thiren was very adamant on making sure you only felt safe around him. 

You could see his ear twitch, alert to any noises that would require him to wake up. It was another habit your husband had picked up, from a time before you as far as you were aware. He wasn’t secretive about his past to you, though you never pushed him to tell you everything, something you knew he appreciated.

 You could feel your smile widened as you attempted to quietly sneak out of the male’s arms, gently pushing his arms off of you. Though you knew it was futile once his hold only tightened around you, a soft grumble escaping from the wolf. Alerting you he was already awake, like he typically was.

“Love, you know we both have work.” You softly chided, suppressing any laughs as he only tiredly grumbled again in response. As uncharacteristic many would say, Lycaon wasn’t actually much of a morning person. But because of the job he has, it sadly forced him to adopt an early morning routine. Though you couldn’t say much, since your own job had you suffer the same thing.

He let out a tired growl like noise, nuzzling his nose into your hair. You almost wanted to coo at him over how cute he was being, but you refrained from doing so to keep him from grumbling even more. Your hands began to skillfully brush through his fur, stroking near his ears in a gentle fashion. As you did so you could feel his hold relax, making you smile as your coaxing for him to move starts working. The light pat pat from his tail hitting your legs softly could be slightly heard under his increasing grumbling. But you knew you won when he slowly detached from you, though he still gave your cheek a nuzzle before he fully sat up.

The sight in front of you was something you saw every morning, but you couldn’t help but be in awe every time you saw the early morning light hit the thiren just right. The way his fur was both messy yet still gave a sense of pristine cleanliness even with some tufts being misplaced. Or the way even with the thicker fur, since it was beginning to become cold in the city, you could still see the powerful muscles move as he stretched and moved around the room. Which signaled you to start getting up, stretching out your own sore muscles and brushing your messed up hair into an easier to manage lump.

When you finally walked over to the bathroom to do your morning routine, your husband had already finished dressing into his uniform and brushed out his fur. The faint sounds of him working in the kitchen could be heard as you walked out your room dressed as well, smiling to see the typical quick yet nutritious breakfast the wolf thiren was always insistent on making for you even when you insistent on cooking for you both. GIving him a quick kiss on his cheek in gratitude, you quickly ate your food and sipped on your freshly brewed coffee. As the man insisted on using the very expensive espresso machine he had gotten to satisfy your caffeine needs, though he never used it for himself as he preferred tea.

After a few moments of packing essentials and basking in the quiet moments before it was time for the both of you to leave, you followed Lycaon to the door of your home. Just before he could leave, you wrapped your arms around him and squeezed onto his waist tightly, earning an affectionate chuckle in response as he reciprocated the hug.

“I’ll be home at the usual time, Love.” He spoke, closing his eyes in content as you cupped his face. Even if it forced him to almost bend down halfway to let you do so, he always loved to let you hold his face like it was your world.

“Okay, be safe.”

“I always will.” At those words you pull him closer, pressing your lips gently against his for what you wished could be for hours. But it was only for a few moments. Once he pulls away you hug him once more and watch him gently close the door and lock it behind him. After a few moments you let out a sigh, choosing to ignore the dull feeling in your chest over how easy you missed your partner. Taking ina breath, you decided to head to your office and set to work.

Even though you worked from home most of the time, you always insisted on waking up and getting ready along with him. Because you could never forgive yourself if you missed those gentle and sweet moments with him, seeing him in a light that he only let you see. As the image of the male’s grumpy face surfaces into your mind, you smile.

Yeah, mornings were your favorite time of day.

[vivisextion]

MEGATHREAD OF KIM MENTIONS BY ALL SKILLS

While doing my max stats run, I noticed Rhetoric called Kim 'Kim'. I thought this was a little unusual, as I assumed blue skills would address him in a more formal fashion. This led me down a rabbit hole of how they all refer to Kim, so here you go.

DISCLAIMER: These are all mined from fayde.co.uk (big shoutout, this post would not have been possible without it). I have removed all duplicates and interactions with variants ("Replaced with:"). It is also possible despite my best efforts my dyscalculia may have fked up with the larger figures but I did go over it multiple times, so it's unlikely. OK LET'S GO

BLUE SKILLS

LOGIC

All 3 mentions of 'Kim' are late-game. Otherwise, Logic defaults to 'the lieutenant'. Only 1 mention of 'Kim Kitsuragi' and that's only when talking about the case file number sequence for The Hanged Man.

ENCYCLOPEDIA

The full name usage is related to when you discover his past with pinball - even the one mention of 'Kim' is in reference to how Seolite people love pinball. Otherwise, the most common address is also 'the lieutenant'.

RHETORIC

Seems like the use of 'Kim' is an outlier and like I suspected, the default tends to be 'the lieutenant'. It wasn't a late vs. early game thing either because I got the 'Kim' mention on Day 1 of the game.

DRAMA

Interestingly, no 'Kim' at all. Drama prefers more bombastic and less personal terms, I guess.

CONCEPTUALIZATION

No use of 'Kim' or 'Kitsuragi'. The only direct address was the line "Dammit lieutenant, have you no intellectual curiosity?"

Otherwise, like most of the other blue skills, Conceptualization doesn't mention Kim that much.

VISUAL CALCULUS

Mentions Kim (in all forms) the least, which is not surprising.

Like all other blue skills, 'the lieutenant' is the most common used. They tend to be more on the less personal side.

PURPLE SKILLS

VOLITION

Only 1 direct address of 'lieutenant'. The line mentioning Pinball/Kimball is 'Any plan to call him Pinball or Kimball is immediately wiped from your neocortex, as if with some sort of mind altering device. It is simply not going to happen.'

Still more of a formal address preference.

INLAND EMPIRE

The only time IE uses 'Kim' is "If you can't trust your own eyes, who can you trust? Certainly not Kim. He's so… suspicious." in regards to finding a key card in Evrart's office.

Also prefers 'the lieutenant', like the blue skills.

EMPATHY

Also seems to refer to Kim in a more respectful way. The only mention of 'Kimball' is about footprints in the dust in the back of the Whirling: "This is so good it makes him forget the whole Kimball memory."

Also note the increased frequency in Kim mentions.

AUTHORITY

Of course 'Lieutenant Eyebrow' occurs during the famous showdown. One mention of 'Kim' is earlier game and one is late game. Makes sense Authority would be professional most of the time and use 'the lieutenant'.

ESPRIT DE CORPS

Will not shut up about Kim (101!!). Most mentions advise you not to complete important tasks without him. 1 repeat of 'Lieutenant Kitsuragi' mentions the black bomber jacket you get from hardcore mode. The last one is when Harry climbs the horse statue during the moralist run.

SUGGESTION

Much less quiet in comparison, but still polite.

Purple skills mention Kim a lot more, in general, than blue ones, which makes sense as they concern external affairs and people moreso. Out of all the skills, they refer to Kim the most, actually, as we will see.

RED SKILLS

ENDURANCE

The two instances of 'Lieutenant Kitsuragi' are during the confrontation with Ruby: "The torment Lieutenant Kitsuragi is experiencing is worse than your own."

PAIN THRESHOLD

Doesn't care about anyone but Harry, probably. Only mention is talking to Klaasje about the body hanging behind the Whirling: "A bitter cringe. It hurts. You look to the lieutenant…"

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT

The most disrespectful. Refers to Kim as a binoclard the most out of all the skills.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY

The only mention of 'binoclard' is when you try to teach Lilienne's twins to say 'fuck'. EC cheers you on. Volition is disappointed, as is Kim ("deeply unimpressed").

"Why does he have to be such a binoclard? It's just a funny word!"

SHIVERS

Doesn't have much to say about the lieutenant. 2 of the 4 are variations of each other during the Moralist quest. Duplicates are due to the Noid vs. Soona version of the quest.

HALF LIGHT

One mention is during the game of Suzerainty, when Kim has the upper hand, which is a funny time for a fight-or-flight response to kick in.

In general, the red skills don't concern themselves much with Kim, since they largely are focused on Harry.

YELLOW SKILLS

HAND/EYE COORDINATION

Second least mentions of Kim in the yellow skills.

PERCEPTION

Both 'Kim' mentions are Sight. Mentions of 'the lieutenant' by category: 2 Smell, 6 Hearing, 2 Sight. (No Taste… sadly).

REACTION SPEED

Gets a little more fancy with it 'the good lieutenant' and also addresses Kim directly the most out of all the skills (2 mentions of 'lieutenant'): "Too late, lieutenant." and "Impressive note-keeping, lieutenant."

SAVOIR FAIRE

The duplicates have to do with a line during the Ultraliberal quest: "The lieutenant speaks as if you're rich -- a common misconception -- especially if you count the tax. No, we've got a long way to go before we can feel financially comfortable. The hustle never stops!"

INTERFACING

Least reference to Kim of all yellow skills, which is surprising considering the Kineema interaction.

COMPOSURE

The chattiest of the yellow skills about Kim, though yellow skills still have the second lowest mentions of the lieutenant.

STATS RUNDOWN

Total Kim mentions by colour

Blue: 82

Purple: 245 (thanks, EDC)

Red: 31

Yellow: 62

Top 3 mentions

EDC: 128

Empathy: 43

Rhetoric: 30

Bottom 3 mentions

Pain Threshold: 1

Interfacing, Shivers, VisCal: 4

H/E Coordination, Endurance, Half Light: 5

Most common address

the lieutenant: 335

Kim: 32

Lieutenant Kitsuragi: 26

So, overwhelmingly, most of the skills seem to default to 'the lieutenant'. Not just the blue ones. Hopefully, that helps someone, although how I have no idea.

BONUS: YOU!

What about Harry, you ask (or not)? I GOT YOU.

Harry calls Kim a binoclard more than Physical Instrument, though one time he says it as an apology.

Both times he uses Kim's full name and title is during radio comms.

Harry calls him 'Kim' to his face (457) more than 'lieutenant' (89) (spread over early to late game).

To others, Harry refers to Kim as 'Kim' 39 times, compared to 4 uses of 'the lieutenant'.

The only time Agent Kim is used is discussing the Seolite conspiracy.

That's it! One last parting gift: Kim refers to Harry as 'Harry' 15 times. :)

[samuraionyourmom]

Now that the first chapter of the Stormbringer manga has released, I'd like to take a moment to analyze a previous headcanon with the new context the new manga has given us and perhaps put it into a different perspective than just Dazai being a stinky bastard man.

So, you all know about the headcanon of Dazai sneaking into Chuuya's apartment and using/wasting all of his fancy hair products. You know it, you love it. But let's take a closer look at it, specifically regarding the context this page gives us:

In this panel alone, it becomes very clear to us that Chuuya truly has no sense of self. If you thought Dazai's shipping container was bad, this ain't exactly any better. This isn't a home. It's barely a living space. It's a place of residence at best. It has a bed, a small desk, and a vault with a shower and rows and rows of pristine black suits. There's absolutely nothing in this place that would tell you that a 16 year-old boy lives here.

Because Chuuya has no idea what a 16 year-old boy does. He doesn't know who he's supposed to be or what he's supposed to like or how to decorate his space with his own personality. Because he doesn't know what that personality is.

This is the overarching theme of Stormbringer in which Chuuya is trying to figure out who he exactly is, whether that's a human or a clone or whatever. If you haven't read it already, I highly recommend it if you like Chuuya even a little bit, especially now that the manga is releasing.

Now, back to the headcanon. Say Chuuya does have some fancy hair products in that little vault shower of his. I mean, it is perfectly reasonable to assume he would be expected to look presentable while he manages the jewel trading business, the part of the Port Mafia he had been put in charge of. He wouldn't want to embarrass the Port Mafia, after all. I wouldn't put it past him to have such products in his possession because he feels he's expected to look good for the sake of the mafia's reputation.

But that's the thing. It's all about expectations. Chuuya, as a person, doesn't really care about his appearance because he hasn't had a chance to be himself yet. He was found by the Sheep at around 8 years old when he didn't even know what bread was. Ever since then, he was expected to be their leader and guard dog. But when he joined the Port Mafia, he had a new set of expectations, ones he's still adjusting to.

Chuuya, up to this point, hasn't a chance to be himself. He doesn't know what kind of fashion he likes or how he likes to style his hair. People keep pushing their expectations onto him, and he feels like the only option he has is to try his best to comply with them in order to not be alone. Check out his character song, "Darkness My Sorrow," for this reason.

So, Chuuya may have some fancy hair products that he keeps not because he personally enjoys hair care, but in an attempt to try to meet the expectations set up for him by being in the Port Mafia.

And then Dazai sneaks into this sad excuse of a living situation (not that he can talk) and wastes them. And Chuuya is pissed. He assumes that it's just Dazai trying to set him up for failure or trying to get him to embarrass himself in some way.

But here's the thing. The hair products' existence in his space is solely because of the expectations put upon him. They're not a part of Chuuya as a person. But his anger towards Dazai is. The emotions Chuuya feels are something that is a part of him innately. Something he can look towards as evidence of his personhood, as silly as it is.

This infuriating little habit that Dazai has is a way to prove Chuuya's humanity. To show that he doesn't need to be so concerned with the expectations of others and that he can focus on himself, whoever that may be. He can focus on being the Chuuya that Dazai hates so much instead of yielding to the will of others.

This is similar to the way Dazai manipulates the situation to get the Sheep turn on Chuuya. It's his way of showing that these people never considered Chuuya their family, and they eventually would have turned on him if push came to shove. It's weird and manipulative and convoluted, but that's Dazai for you. He is incapable of showing care in a normal way, apparently.

So, I view this headcanon in a new light. Dazai is always certain of Chuuya's humanity and personhood, even when Chuuya himself is not. He shows that in incredibly frustrating and confusing ways, like stealing and wasting the soap that is a representation of the expectations that are crushing Chuuya and his sense of self under its weight. Chuuya's anger, his threats of violence against Dazai for his petty heist, those are all Chuuya. They are his own thoughts and feelings, and no one can take that from him.

In conclusion, Chuuya needs to learn that he can be who he wants and be given the time to figure out who he is, and Dazai needs to learn how to flirt like a normal person instead of doing... whatever he's attempting to do right now.

[mayamidnightmelody]

Art of Bill Medcalf

William Edward (Bill) Medcalf (1920 - 2005)

Bill Medcalf was totally ahead of his time with his pin-up art! 😍 Like, imagine these super cute paintings from back in the day that are still iconic AF today! He was all about capturing these bombshell babes in their element, rockin' those retro vibes like nobody else. His style was on point, blending realism with a touch of fantasy, making you wish you could step into those scenes! 🎨

Each painting by Medcalf is like a glimpse into this fantasy world where everything's glamorous and sassy. His babes are always so confident and playful, showing off those killer curves and making you go, "Wow!" He had this knack for detail, every brushstroke making these gals look alive and full of personality. 🌟

One thing you can't miss about Medcalf's work is how he nailed those vintage vibes. Think about it: those retro hairstyles, the fashion that's now back in trend, and those smoldering expressions that say, "I know I'm hot." It's like stepping into a time machine where beauty standards were all about class and sass! 💃

His drawing style? Flawless. The way he could capture the human form, especially the female figure, was legendary. Smooth lines, delicate shading, and colors that pop like they're straight out of a modern fashion mag. It's like he painted these pin-ups to be timeless, always keeping them fresh and relevant. 🖌️

And let's not forget the themes he explored! From beach babes soaking up the sun to sultry sirens lounging in luxurious settings, Medcalf covered it all. He knew how to make art that speaks to your soul and your sense of style, no matter what decade you're in. 😎

Even today, Medcalf's paintings are poppin' on social media and inspiring new artists. People are still vibing with his style because it's not just about the beauty, it's about the attitude. His work is like a mood board for confidence and self-expression, reminding us to own our uniqueness and flaunt it! 🌈

So yeah, Bill Medcalf wasn't just an artist. He was a vibe curator, a trendsetter of his time, and a total legend in the pin-up scene. His legacy lives on through every cheeky smile and every perfectly painted eyelash. Cheers to keeping art spicy and iconic! 🎉

[sugarplumkneecaps]

hiiiiii, i saw you were taking shadow the hedgehog x reader requests! I was hoping it would be okay if i requested one? Can i have a shadow the hedgehog x reader (romatic) where shadow when the readers had a really bad day just holds them close and cuddles them after he finally gets them ti admit what happend? And maybe he starts to play with the readers hair, because he knows it brings him comfort when someone does so with his quills? (I like to headcannon lol that shadow pats out his quills when hes idle because it provides comfort due to it reminds him of how maria used to do something similar)

A/N: I feel like this is so on brand for him and love the HC you have for why his idle animation is what it is! I hope I can do your request some justice <3

Comfort

Pairing: Shadow x Reader C/W: none Genre: Wholesome, cuddling, fluff, playing with hair

Life really had a cruel sense of humor, didn’t it? Everything that could have possibly gone wrong today absolutely had. You woke up late, your hair was an absolute mess that was beyond saving, and searching for a hat only made you even more late. Your car had issues starting up, so you had to beg your neighbor to help jumpstart it to get it running again (and you hoped with everything you had that it would start again when you needed to return home. Upon arriving to work, you were lectured and written up for your tardiness, your supervisor having very little patience with everyone but especially you. Customers screamed at you more so than usual, complaining about different orders being wrong in ways they had expected you to figure out on your own. Still, as unjustified as it was, it earned you another talking to about your performance. And the cherry on top was, of course, slipping and covering yourself in the large bucket of sauce you were carrying to the fridge. You did everything you could to try to get it out of your uniform, alas it was an effort in futility.

The only thing that possibly went right was that whatever hoping and praying you did that morning allowed your car to run again. Another downside, however, was that even with the windows rolled all the way down, your seat still stunk of the sauce you were covered in. Cursing the universe, you peeled your uniform off and immediately got in the shower to wash yourself. The warm water did wonders against your skin, washing away your tough exterior. You slunk down to your knees, crying softly as the warm water hit you.

“Love?” Shadow’s voice cut through the sound of the shower. You pulled yourself up, doing your best to compose yourself before he saw you.

“I’m in the shower!” you called back, attempting to sound at the very least neutral. It came off somewhat awkwardly and caught in your throat, almost making you choke on the words.

“Alright, I’ll get dinner set up for you.”

You rushed through the rest of your nightly routine, wiping at the redness under your eyes but to no avail. Shaking the feeling of knowing Shadow might notice, you did your best to fake a smile. Exiting the bathroom, you found dinner put together in a nice display in the center of the table. It was takeout night, and Shadow worked closer to all your favorite eateries. The sight of your favorite cuisine placed lovingly at your spot made your eyes water all over again.

“Everything alright?” Shadow’s voice was dripping with worry.

“Yes! I just appreciate you grabbing dinner,” you smiled, wiping at your eyes in a quick fashion before taking your seat.

For the most part, you both ate in silence, the only thing hanging in the air being your over the top attempts to try to compliment Shadow further. Much like your address in the shower, it came off as forced and awkward. Not that you were a stranger to complimenting your partner, but this felt akin to nonstop yapping than true appreciation. Shadow only thanked you each time, reassuring you it was no issue, and watching you intently.

With dinner done, the inspiration to ask Shadow to watch a movie with you came over you. In reality, you probably should’ve gone to bed, but you were determined to try to at least have a pleasant evening. Shadow obliged, even as his eyebrows knitted with concern. Quickly rummaging through your DVDs, you chose a film haphazardly, shoved it into the disc player and plopped yourself down next to Shadow.

He settled in next to you, a light chuckle rumbling in his chest. “You wanted to watch “Idiocracy”? I thought you hated this movie.” The title stared at you as you realized you had completely blown your cover. You scrambled to figure out a way to cover your blunder.

“Y-yeah! I figured, why not give it another chance? There are so many good meme moments!” you laughed nervously, clicking pressing play and readying yourself to suffer through the film. You truly felt the film was made as a social experiment, perhaps even one with the potential to be used as torture. You had watched it once with your friend and it filled you with a rage that you could not describe. The same friend had given you a copy of your own for your collection of movies as a gag gift, to which you swore up and down you would never subject yourself to it again.

Of course it would be today of all days that you eat your words.

Shaking his head in protest, Shadow reached over and paused the film, sensing your doom. “Alright. What’s going on? You’ve been acting strange.”

You swallowed hard, working at the lump forming in your throat, “nothing! I’m fine, let’s start the movie-”

Your outstretched hand was grasped by Shadow’s, preventing you from keeping up with this facade. His crimson eyes were intense as they searched your face, his smooth voice serious, “tell me. We promised to not keep things from each other. Let me help.”

As if a dam had been broken, your eyes welled with tears and they poured down your cheeks. “Today has just been-“ hic “the worst.” And just as he had asked, you spilled everything. How you woke up late, your car wouldn’t start, how awful work had been, everything. He listened intently, his hand moving to caress your cheek before pulling you into an embrace. You sat there for awhile, your shoulders heaving as you cried.

Shadow pulled away for an instant, moving to the disc player and ejected the wretched movie in favor of one of your comfort films. He moved silently into the kitchen, filling up a water bottle and gathering up some of your favorite snacks. You wiped at your wet face, watching on curiously.

He set everything down before you and sat once again next to you, pulling you into his arms. You did little to prevent the shift, feeling a great amount of comfort from his touch. The movie started up, the opening scenes working magic on your nerves. You exhaled a much needed breath.

A gentle smile stretched along Shadow’s lips as he moved his hand up and began to stroke your hair. The soothing sensation rivaled the work of the Sandman himself as your eyelids began to droop. The sounds of Shadow’s steady breathing mixed with the background noises of your favorite film set the perfect backdrop for you to fall asleep, Shadow’s fingers working through your hair gently to seal your fate. Images of better days fueled by Shadow’s love for you made their way into your mind. You sighed one last time as you drifted asleep in Shadow’s arms.

[fawnpires]

hihii idk if ur requests are open but I'd like 2 kindly question for a konig x hyperfem! reader?? just konig falling in love with cutesy fm reader -🎀

୨୧ — anon, you’ve just blessed me with creating the concept of college!könig + hyperfem!reader together as a pair.

꒰ CONTENTS ꒱ -> COLLEGE AU, hyperfem + fem!reader, college!könig, undertones of pining, strangers to lovers, dumbification, size difference, oral sex [fem. receiving], mutual loss of virginity, messy sex, tons of manhandling, usage of pet names.

There's something about him that appeals to no other girl; he's around a year or two older in comparison to you – a kept-to-himself, socially bordered-off type of guy, barely knows how to communicate with others, barely knows how to converse with girls at that.

Hell, you don't even think you've seen him up until now, – excluding the classes you have with him – perched up in some corner of a borderline sketchy frat party, spread-legged on the couch and stiff as ever with a red solo cup cupped in his equally tense fist. Not his kind-of environment. Not the sort to be here. Makes you wonder where he'd much rather be right now.

You're smitten by him, as early as those feelings sound and fully embedded itself in your head. But who were you to deny them about a guy like him? – a lean, tall structure with just a sufficient amount of softness and toughened muscles around the edges, the kindest hues of blue gracing the formations of his eyes, and that nearly dreamy shade of pale-sandy that his shaggy hair and light stubble takes on.

And you don’t have the faintest clue how, but you would never expect to end up on that couch, the bared skin of your thigh beneath the pleats of your little mini-skirt rubbing up against the coarse fabric of his jeans. although it’s probably the alcohol, or the closely intimate atmosphere of the party, but either way, you had no doubts that his mere presence was to have you hooked onto him. (save for the innocent school-girl crush that you'd never owned up to until right about now.)

"König, right?" you asked, striking up benevolent conversation all while giving him a timid yet sweet smile plastered against the puffiness of your glossed-over lips. 

The moment you had first made your way over here and politely invited yourself directly next to him, it left him paralyzed, constricted in his own body to some extent. He couldn't deny your beauty as much as you found his own; a bit ditsy in all the right places appearance-wise, but possessing your own personal fashion sense which he found quite endearing. Little pale-pink ribbons he had always observed you wearing around campus and during classes somewhere in your hair, a variety of mini-skirts and dresses, or the occasional crop top and a track-suit. The cliché feminine kind. 

This particular exchange seems to pique his interests. He comes across as oddly indulged in you, eyes discreetly alight than usual.

“Mhm. I know you,” he nodded, a delicate gruff-ness lingering in his tone. “you’ve become a common sight to me, not to sound strange, but I'm sure we have most classes together.” 

“Not strange at all. Though, I barely see you around outside of classes.” 

“Yeah, I figured. just not the partying-type, it’s a mystery as to how I ended up here.” 

You snorted. “The frats are my best guess, complete assholes. Must’ve gotten to your head about letting loose, stupefying yourself… somethin’ like that.” 

He chuckles, ending it in a brief dragged-out sigh, sincere and throaty, his lips left agape. 

“You know, they may not be entirely wrong,” he ponders aloud, eyeing your doe gaze before aimlessly staring ahead. “there’s no harm in loosening up every now and then – but still, I fear the farthest I can go is alcohol.” 

“No girls?” you remark teasingly, tilting your head like a curious puppy. “That’s hard to believe.” 

The tease of a compliment causes him to roll his eyes in a light-hearted manner, his head sloping back down to stare down at you as he’s left with a raised eyebrow – along with a small, stupid-plastered grin smudged across his semi-thinned lips. Focused. strange, charming, loser of a man he was. It was probably just the alcohol really enhancing on his actions and speech, but who was he to not take advantage of such abilities? 

In some subconscious portion between his assumed temporary self-confidence and original, reserved and sweetheart-of-a-man self; an arm reached around the expanse of your back, keeping you close to him in a fragile way of handling you. His hand had itself in your hair, lightly toying with the satin material of your ribbons in the most tender way possible. 

There’s evident potential amidst the both of you – he knows it, and you know it. 

“Not so hard to believe when I'm talking to one right now.” he comments, blinking at you with a subtle smirk. “I've never told you or anyone this but… god, you’re a beauty.”

His flirtations were kept sweetened, innocent and a tad shy still. He's pleasant enough to converse with rather than fraternities. They weren’t much of empaths, just insufferable pains in the asses. Turning girls into their insignificant wet dreams. At least König beat the poorly-set expectations of getting together with a man like that as a last resort out of you, a chance at more ideal circumstances. 

You found yourself enamored with the guy the second you walked into this party – gaping over at him through the corners of your eyes across the room, across campus, – and now, without a train of moral thinking in your head,  you’ve got yourself in the same position like every other girl at a college party; settled in some handsome stranger’s lap, and making out with him your life depends on it. The last thing you remembered was the way his words in the form of a compliment came to you, before you had your legs rested on each side of his spread legs and large hands caging gently at your waist. 

It’s an ambiguity as to how quickly your body molds into his, ridges and curves sculpting as if they were familiar to one another, almost like they were predestined to attach like a hidden prophecy. His kisses are a far cry from how you initially expected them to be. (unfortunately rough, messy, just like how you’d seen your friends get it on with their boyfriends.) 

A heavy hand palms at the back of your head while the other is left at one side of your hip – the cushion of his lips meeting yours with a lenient, mutual desperation. You barely know anything about him, yet here you are caught in this trance of letting him take guidance in this, all you’re doing is pursuing in whatever he does. Your arms wrap around his neck, chest rising and falling against his as the intimacy of the kiss begins to naturally register in your brain. He had you in the palm of his hand, clearly. 

You’re so deeply in savoring the exhilarating taste of him that it was beyond your realizations he’s up and lifting you off of his lap, instead leading you on with only both of your arms clinging to one of his own – leaning onto him in a love-drunk predicament. You could’ve sworn he was looking down at you with the most adoration you’ve ever seen on a man’s face, nothing surprising when he was being the right amount of considerate to accompany you back to your own dorm – to lose his heart’s worth and devotion to. He had such a pure heart, virtuous even. That is, until you’re at the foot of your door, and you’re unlocking it without a realistic thought in mind – were you really this yearnful? – lacing fingers with a foreign individual, breaths lost in a slight stagger until you’re swinging the door wide open and stumbling inside along with him. 

It’s when your legs wrap around the dips of his hips, and your arms once more caging in framing his neck, you definitely knew that this was something beyond casual. He ghosts kisses against the course of your jaw, trailing down to your neck, a hungering fluctuation. Your head is leaned backwards, body held in the confines of his towering-self and the solid wall; truthfully, it was a reality of euphoric suffocation with his hand gently resting around your neck and the whole situation with him and the wall, fingers resting on the skin for some stability rather than the purpose of choking you out. 

In all of his honesty, he doesn’t know where he’s obtained this abrupt ability to turn such a pretty girl into a melted pile of mush in his hands, considering his substantial lack of experience. However, he couldn’t deny putting it to good use. 

With a share of his hoarse huffs and your choked-up intoxicated sighs, he rounds the corner of your living room area and nearly trips over the threshold of the bedroom bringing you into it. You project your gaze onto his face – and bizarrely, find that you are unable to stifle a smile at the sheer sight of him, girlish and one possessing the aspects of authentic love, a rosy color blooming across your facial features. He cups the softness of your ass beneath the stretched material over your skirt, chuckling beneath his breath at the show of flusteredness occupying your face. He pecks chastely at your forehead before laying you down in the center of your mattress, hunched over, affectionately trailing his lips across the stretch of your shoulders and collarbones. He's gentle, stroking at the outlines of your sides soothingly, getting your heart-rate spiking and the blood in your veins pulsating, reveling in a newer warmth. 

“You might just be the prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen,” he says to you in a hushed voice, palming at the dough-like flesh of your breasts through your top and bra before shedding them off of your chest. He stares dumb-founded at the caused nudity, his eyes downcast and a slight bob in his adam’s apple. “you must really like me a lot to let me do this to you, huh, prinzessin?” 

You bit the region of your lower lip, teeth sinking into the kiss-swollen rawness while you nodded your head, eyelashes fluttering up at him. “Like you so much, König. I…” you swallowed, brushing the back of your hand against the contours of his face. “I think you’re the sweetest guy in the world.” you finish breathily, eyes half-lidded in a sensual-ardent craze. 

He kisses your knuckles, and then the area beneath. “Yeah? I've got a bunch of feelings about you too.” König says, his hands now finding their way to the edges of your skirt and pulling the piece of fabric down to discard on the floor next to your bed.

“Really?” you respond with a ditsy little smile. 

A small smile creases his lips. “Of course I do. How do you think we’ve even managed to end up like this in the first place?” he says, “Feelings and a beautiful girl do have their tolls on a man.” 

And there is when those carved, rugged hands of his do the most predictable; fingertips over lace and hooked into the waistband, dragging down that last article of modesty down and giving him a full worth’s perspective of the girl he had longed after, and not so shamefully, fell in love with in a single night. Desperation is put at the forefront of his mind from this point and on – since the manner of which he plants his knees into the mattress and nestles himself in between the spread of your legs that now rested curled and caging around his hips was something truly explicit in nature. 

Calloused fingers slip between your thighs within a matter of a few seconds, the pads of his fingertips massaging from your clit and right to the center of your puffy folds, glossed over with copious amounts of your slick. Your benefit of bringing him right back to your dorm room, a man with an eagerness to pull an orgasm out of such an angel of a girl. 

König has that terminal objective in mind as he observes the way your lashes flutter over your lash-line, his index and middle finger extended  – pressing against your clit and moving with just enough pressure to draw a few gasps and softened mewls from your lips. You’re left writhing on the sheets, hips elevated off of the bed due to the sensual arch of your back, and panting out his name so pathetically your own voice was far from recognizable; like you would lose all genuine sanity if he wouldn’t just get straight to the point.

To your luck, he doesn’t hesitate – because he to is way too pent-up, and in some dire need of simulation – and disengages his fingers away from your pulsating cunt just to lock your legs in two muscular biceps, his head finding its own heaven right there in between your squeezing thighs wrapped around his head. Drills his tongue into your silken walls and gives you the blissful sensation of being stuffed full with just that. He’s only ever seen this in the casual porno here and there, sure, but the real thing was something distinctly new to him; made him feel like not a beginner, but more on the side of heavy experience on knowing how to coax a pretty cunt to open up for him. 

You feel his stubble graze over your sensitivity, and the curved ridge of his nose bumping right up against your clit additionally. A union near impossible for your cunt to not squeeze around his tongue that was so expertly getting you stupefied for him in all the right ways – it was overwhelming in some sense, but you would surely not be lying if it you said that König, withdrawn and mannered-craze, had definitely ruined you for any other man on sexual terms. 

“Doing good up there so far, engel?” he asks, a slight growl to his accent with the muffle of his mouth stuffed of you. 

“Yes! just… don’t stop, please,” you manage to whisper back breathily, fingers lacing and gently tugging through the now-unkempt bits of his hair. “feels so good.” 

Your mouth is left open, head slanted back, and your doe eyes now hooded-over as you gazed down at where his broad, large figure had resided. His tongue fills you up, plunging in back-and-forth motions until the messy combination of his spit and your arousal began to make a soaking mess right between your thighs, drooling down your skin and collecting in a small pool underneath you in a lewd sight. He’s got you quite literally trapped between this bordering exhilaration of his euphoric ministrations and his rooted physicality below you. 

He’s rather sloppy with how he’s eating you out, lips kissing at your folds in a near-disgusting-erotic implication of making out with them. You feel the warmth of his breath against you; the coarseness of his stubble simultaneously pressing there. He drags the muscle of his tongue over your clit repeatedly, his gaze fully focused on the overwhelming neediness that was slowly beginning to dissipate your natural consciousness. At this point, his cock was straining up through his boxers and the suffocating fabric of his jeans – albeit his belt being undone and his pants pulled down to only his hip-bones in a poor attempt of getting them off. 

On your end, you were submerged in the hands of his treatment. Your glistening, doe eyes glazed over with arousal and the small bits of wetness gracing the lengths of your lashes. Your lips are kiss-swollen and tinted a faint blush-red, lip gloss smeared at the corners and difficult to really make-out if it was really product or the residue of his own saliva from his sensual, hungry kisses. Your hands rest on top of his that were keeping your thighs parted – that is, until he fully registers your touch and instead keeps a gentle hold on both of your hands amidst the intimate scenario. Large fingers laced with your manicured ones, his thumbs drawing small circles into the forms of your knuckles poking out while his sweaty palms lovingly press up against yours. 

König’s going down on you like his life depends on it, some excessive lapping and kissing, over and over again. one of his hands release from yours, two of his fingers nudging their way into you beside his tongue – a stuttering in your breathing patterns to accompany the fucked-out expression of your pretty, ruined face sleeked with sweat. You’re fully convinced that was the peak of your euphoria, cunt squeezing so firmly around his tongue and fingers pumping without pause, hitting that sensitive spot of nerves. it was a requited sentiment – his rigid cock aching to be freed from their denim confines, your cunt dripping out of neediness and warmth – and you both knew it, though not verbally expressed, that you needed one another to really get down to being the pinnacles of each other’s deepest physical wants. perfectly-timed. 

It's not long before you succumb to his doings, hips lifting off the mattress a few inches and squirming against him, hand tightening to his as your mouth locks in a momentary position of being hung open, and nearly all the possible sounds of an orgasmic reverie pulling from your throat. König kisses against your folds, more delicately this time, then grazing his lips up to your pelvic bone and worshipping the skin there. Slow and sensual. A tender contact to contrast the aftershocks of your release you were still inevitably riding out at the moment. Your cunt flexes around his remaining digits one last time, before softening and releasing; he takes this as a sign, hesitantly pulling out with a coarse sigh. 

He sits on his heels, durable hands easily maneuvering your body to his chest and sitting you up against the nude sturdiness of himself. “You put on quite a show, don’t you?” he muses, kissing the side of your head with the smoothest of pecks. 

You arch your back into him, entire head mentally stimulated on all of him. “Where'd you learn how to do that?” you question, mildly-dumbfounded and wallowing in his sexual expertise, dexterity. 

“That's for me to know, and you to find out, meine liebe.” he teases to you, rubbing the tip of his nose against your scalding cheek. 

You huff out, rolling your eyes. Cheeky. “Then… enough chat and let me ‘find out’.” you bit your lower lip at him enticingly, sore cunt almost-instinctively rubbing up against the erected, center portion of his jeans and staining the fabric with the pearl-esque mess of your arousal. A whine, docile and lenient, comes from you at the grasp of understanding what you were doing. König’s aware, too. None of you were a cut above. An orchestration of deep groans and much more higher, feminine sounds of an equal intoxicating high. The denim deepens in its color, thanks to that pretty little thing at the core of your legs painting all over it. 

König’s a big man, and a strong one at that. (for a nerd like him, he’s awfully muscular. has he got a side hustle? it really makes you wonder.) So, what kind of a man would he be to deny giving you just one more fuck? A genuine one, one that could really make you fall head over heels for him and have your little heart beating for him days after this night. 

He can just see it in your dolly little eyes, lashes batting at him while you were sat, naked, grinding on his lap like a bitch in heat, waiting for him to just do something. Anything at all. Before he knows it, he’s almost immediately giving into you, hands ridding the rest of his clothes and fishing out his fat cock from the last remnants of material. 

His cock smacks against the lower region of his abdomen once released. Bulky and heavy. In this state of a longing, aphrodisiac-like crave, the veins adorning him are more prominent, the blunt head leaking of an abundant quantity of pre-cum and decorating his subtly-tanned skin. The sight has you flushing and sent straight to a mindset of dumbification, some place where you’re pliant and completely in love with all of him; his seraphic body of masculinity seemingly crafted by the gods themselves, the profuse amount of worship he held for you. It’s almost comical how fast it’s taken you to fall for him in such little time. 

There’s so little to do now except to take you in position, give you the satisfaction of an unconditional, non-negotiable fuck out of reverence. You’re given an eyeful of him once he turns you around, bending you over to linger above a disheveled bed – a safe haven made up of a messed, cum-stained mattress. He’s seductive, obviously, otherwise you wouldn’t be all vulnerable for him right now; fucked-over with the case of an ample heart, and an ache in your pussy – is this really the effect of a hunky-loser austrian had on you? No complaints. The guy’s sultry in his own way. 

He's as tall as always behind you, even on his knees. menacing, gentle bastard. His hands find a purchase on either sides of your bare hips, fingers molding into the flesh. A place carved out just for him. Sturdy hips attach to the fullness of your ass, sweat-on-sweat; has you whining beneath your breath like a sniveling dog, especially when the lips of your puffy cunt cushion the length of his cock as he slides in between yours folds  – collecting slick, an audible squelch from the mess reverberating through your heated ears. The flushed head taps against your swollen clit before gliding into you with precision. Your back automatically forces itself into a deeper arch to push back against him, arms encased to one of your pillows to which you muffled your incoherent pleasure-made sounds. 

Your once-stubborn pussy, now so well-trained to be compliant for him, took in his shallow thrusts. Not much, but what was there to expect? A rough fuck wasn’t your thing – and a majority of campus’s male population wouldn’t even put a girl’s vulnerability during intimacy in the forefronts of their minds – so you were thankful for him. 

“Christ, you’re huge.” you nearly sob out in a whimper, with the divergence of a dumbified, slack grin on your ruined lips. 

He grunts, “Takes a little to get used to, eh?” the smack of a kiss lands against the face of your right shoulder. “You doing okay? Could always eat you out again, y’know… doesn’t hurt to.” 

“Yeah – yeah. I’m fine,” a small gasp leaves you, unfamiliar with something so foreign filling your guts up at such a pace. “fuck what I feel, god, just fuck me.” 

He rubs the sides of your hips with his thumbs, stilling within you, and slightly hunching over in position – the chiseled and softened fat of his torso rubbing up against your sheen, curved back, his hands falling from their grace at your hips and instead settling between the crevices of your smaller-in-size fingers. They lace like ribbon through eyelets, fingertips pressing down intently at the tops of your palms, and his head plummeting to the curve of your shoulder to your neck where he conceals his face with ease. 

His thrusts are no longer those of a gentle, bonafide lover, but instead restored with something more starved – like he’ll die a poor man if he doesn’t modify your insides into the shape of him. 

“Jesus, you’re fuckin’ wet, engel.” lips pucker and latch onto your neck for gentle caresses, “You needed this, can see it in – Scheiß – those little eyes. “ 

“Mmph – yeah.” you croak out, throat hung out and dry. Sandpaper for a throat. 

“Smart girl. you love me, huh?” König forces you into a deeper arch, coercing that love right out. No oral communication needed. He collapses further ove you and takes the angle of your chin, tilting it in a fragile-hold from the pillow as he holds it up – right enough to meet his dilated, enveloped-of-eyelids gaze. so he takes advantage of this posture and kisses you and shares the taste of him, licking you, worshipping you, tongues overlapping one another right about to define the proximity; pistoning, widened hips and a malleable receiver. 

Then you do the sluttiest thing a girl like you has ever done – grind your hips back onto the canvas of his crotch, his single hand holding you tight against him, rubbing intermittently across your lower stomach when he shifts all his of his focus onto his calculated motions and the way your cunt drips onto him. Down the length of him all, and discarded below to the sheets. 

He's so explicitly hard he could feel it all around him, his muscles, his throbbing head, and you’re no better, squeezing him so tightly that he’s suffocated. The good type of suffocation, one that makes you feel like you’re all blissed out. It’s one whole mass of flesh and intimate rapture. He thrusts harder, squeezes harder, and you continue to grind back onto him – the cycle continues, dragging on and on, and you’re aware this is no longer some hook-up – it’s gotten way too intimate now to be classified as such. 

A string of higher-pitched yes, yes, yeses! are spoken like a prayer from you and your unable-to-be-shut mouth. And then, because he can’t really help himself anymore, he wraps his arms around your full torso and presses into you more, thrusting and thrusting to the point where he’s too psychologically stimulated on sex, fucking you, desperate, adoring, each motion enhanced with the softcore-aggressive, dragging, shoving, capture of this fragile body of yours. The pressure’s a give-and-take situation on you and him. 

You;re inclined to a drawn-out call of his name as he drives all mustered force right into you, nails clutching crescents to the surface of stained linen, and your cunt coating him in that same wetness that’s been drooling down your legs. 

König mutters a gruff fucking take it, prinzessin, before just one single plundering thrust for you to come undone, your orgasm so suddenly, so harshly, occurring out of you, a fervent gushing erupting. Man’s first one-on-one orgasm, and he’s just so managed to make you squirt. A madman, surely. Even he thinks it’s unreal – something straight out of his PC monitors, out of the porn websites he’s browsed when his hormones were on a high every other day; he’s a degenerate turned man-of-his-dreams. 

A soft cry is perceived from you as he grinds his hips once more, cock kissing sweetly up to your cervix, his pelvis rubbing into your pubic bone – and you mewl, orgasm dragging itself so needlessly that another surge of fluid spurts from you, painting his abdomen in an array of glistening transparence. He won’t stop, you think. 

That is, until he’s feeling all sensitive in his lower abdomen, sharp and tangible by a sensual inebriation. He pulls out – avoiding the next-few-days-consequence of knocking some poor girl up –  and cums across your folds, spewing lines; hot, scorchingly hot. “You’re something else,” he says, totally out of breath, exuding heat and sweating, rivulets tainting his skin of moisture. 

He’s an accomplished man now.

“So hard to believe you were a virgin before this.” you said, rolling onto your back, the side of your face smushed into a pillow, the quivering of your body signifying the aftermath of his relentlessness still existent. He’s laid down next to you on another pillow, staring blankly at the ceiling with an opened, heated mouth. 

“Porn’s pretty accessible, not that hard to pick up on some skills.” 

“Oh, you’re a perv,” you say, half-jokingly. “But what’s new? Can’t expect an innocent man anymore. Clean slate and all.” 

“It’s a fucked-up world, schatz. You’re just a little, eh… stupid, oblivious, when it comes to the male gender.” he shrugs. 

You smack him blithely on the bicep, a mock-irked expression to the ceiling. “You’re all sickos, that’s why,” you shoot back, “and I’m just a proper lady. I don’t indulge in such things.” 

“Proper lady my ass. You look the part, but anyone can see past those sweet ribbons and beady eyes of yours – minxy piece of work you are.” 

You pout. “You’re mean.” 

He turns his head to the side. “It’s all honesty,” he says, sitting up to the headboard and stretching out his aching shoulders. “And if you’re ever in the mood again, I’ve got my practice, and I can say – I’m not that bad at this whole ‘screwing’ thing.” 

Sighing, you rest your cheek on his slick thigh. “You make it sound like you’re just another campus-fuck offer,” you giggle sweetly, “What did I really do to you, König?”

"Nothing, nothing at all,” he responds, brushing your disheveled hair and making the poor attempts at adjusting your little girlish ribbons to their original state. “Other than having the most prettiest little thing at my disposal, nothing.”

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