#i originally wrote this in the tags of another post but realised i had too much to say about it so here we are

[sweetvillainjude]

It’s so interesting to me in tfota that the characters with 'bad' reputations, Jude and Cardan, who are known for being antagonistic/defiant/hostile and cruel/wicked respectively, are the ones who have morals for the things that matter – i.e. their loyalty, the way they freed the human slaves, how angry they got seeing taryn/nicasia cry and how ready they were to fight because of it. Whereas the characters with outwardly 'better' reputations, Taryn and Locke, who are known for being sweet/nonaggressive/compliant and charming/the 'nicer one' respectively, are ironically the ones who prove to have poor morals when it matters, i.e. by betraying those who trust them, and showing little regard for things like loyalty and honour.

It's so interesting and for me at least seriously riled me up to read, because for taryn/locke it's like, you act like you're good but you're actually awful, whereas for jude/cardan it's, you act like you're awful but you're actually good.

WILD.

[fastbrother]

Detention (E, 1k words)

Harry spends his eighth year recontextualising his relationship with Draco Malfoy.

Tags: Only One Broom, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Fluff and Smut, Praise Kink, Top!Harry Potter

Author's note: Drarry one-shot I wrote for @kk1smet's birthday. Thank you for creating such wonderful art for this fandom, and for letting me use it here! K's original art post can be found here, and you can see more of her art at the bottom of this post!

* * *

They’ve been fighting since—well, since forever. But also since noon. The sky is dark now, and Harry has run out of patience. He turns on his heel, leaving Malfoy to scream into the void.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” 

“I’m going back to the castle. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Out of the question. I’m not spending another day—”

Harry can’t think of many things crueller than the detention McGonagall came up with for them. Another day stuck in the forest with Malfoy and he might just crack. But he’s already cracked, hasn’t he? He’s cracked about a thousand times today. 

“Suit yourself. If you can find unicorn hair in the dark, then by all means, go and find it. I’m going back.” 

And with that, Harry mounts his broom.

“Don’t you dare leave me here alone.”

“Then hop on.”

There’s a break, a little silence.  

“Fine. We’ll go back. But I’m flying.”

“Whatever,” Harry says, too tired for another fight. He dismounts, and offers the broom to Malfoy. 

The sound of crushed leaves fills the air as Malfoy comes closer, then grabs the broom in one swift motion. 

They get on.

Why did Harry think it was a good idea to only bring one broom? He’s uncomfortable, seated much too low, and has nowhere to put his hands. He hates not being in control of it, too. Malfoy flies with too much grace, a sin he didn’t know existed until that very moment. 

Time passes slowly.

Harry’s just got used to the precarious balance when a Thestral whizzes by.

“Ah,” Harry says, against his will, and wraps his hands around Malfoy’s waist. At the same time—or was it earlier?!—Malfoy’s hand lands on Harry’s calf, making Harry swallow the sorry he was about to blurt out. 

Surely, Malfoy will say sorry himself. Or remove his hand. 

He doesn’t. 

So Harry doesn’t remove his hands either. 

They land, and Malfoy’s hand lingers for a second too long.

They’re silent on the way to the castle. It’s bizarre, because the two of them are never silent. They bicker in class, when they’re forced to sit together for “the optics.” They bicker in the corridors, when they bump into each other. They bickered all day today. And now they’re silent, too silent, and the ghost of Malfoy’s touch buns a hole through Harry’s jeans.

Their footsteps echo against the stone walls. And then they stop. They’ve reached the staircase where their paths diverge. Harry has to go up the stairs, while Malfoy carries on.

They look at each other, neither of them moving. Then, at the same time, they act. Malfoy clears his throat. Harry walks towards a broom closet. 

Malfoy follows him in. It’s dark, much too dark to see, but he hears Malfoy dropping to his knees. He lets out a sound when he feels Malfoy’s hands parting his robes. The sounds intensify when Malfoy takes his cock out, and puts his mouth on it. It’s all so unexpected, so wonderfully wet and generous, Harry feels around until he touches Malfoy’s head. He’s really there. 

Fucking Draco Malfoy. Is on his knees. Sucking him off. 

Harry finishes in his mouth, and only afterwards realises he’s been panting. 

* * *

Harry corners Malfoy after Charms. Since last night, he’s had time to think. Truly, he’s had so much time to consider everything that’s ever happened between them, all the nuances of their relationship, all the ways in which they came together. And with all that knowledge safely stored in his brain, Harry locks the door.

Malfoy sinks to his knees. The light spills through the arched windows, and Harry can look into his eyes as he takes Harry in. 

“Jesus Christ,” Harry says, watching Malfoy’s lips strain against his cock. “I want to fuck you.”

Malfoy is a good little boy, because he releases his cock, stands up and bends over Flitwick’s desk. Harry lifts up his robe. 

“You’ve finally shut up,” Harry says, inserting one finger into Malfoy’s hole, pulling a moan out of him. “I love that.”

Harry doesn’t really know what he’s doing, but figures out enough. When he’s close, he pushes Malfoy back on his knees and comes all over his face.

Malfoy licks it off his lips. He’s finished in his pants.

* * *

Harry fucks Malfoy everywhere he can. He fucks him in deserted classrooms. In broom closets. The prefects’ bathroom. He fucks him so much and so often, they’ve both fallen behind on schoolwork. When they get detention for it, Harry fucks Malfoy on the forest bed. 

* * *

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Harry says, looking down at Malfoy. It’s the Christmas hols, and all of Malfoy’s roommates are away. It’s the first time they fuck in a bed.

“You’re beautiful,” Malfoy says, and drags Harry into a kiss. 

* * *

“You’re insatiable,” Draco says when Harry falls into step with him after breakfast. “We have Potions in five minutes.”

“Five minutes is plenty of time.”

Draco rolls his eyes, but lets Harry drag him into a broom closet. 

They waste most of the five minutes kissing, and then another five undressing. By the time Harry comes all over Draco’s chest, the bell ringing is a distant memory. 

“If we get detention again, I’ll kill you,” Draco says while he picks up his robes from the floor. 

“Don’t worry,” Harry says, cleaning them off both. “You go first.”

Harry waits two minutes before going into the classroom. 

“Professor, sorry I’m—”

His gaze falls on Draco, sporting a red tie and looking at Harry in horror. Just like everybody else.

Harry looks down at his own green tie. 

“—late,” he concludes, amidst rising bouts of laughter.

“Shh,” Slughorn says, trying and failing at suppressing a grin. “Ah, nothing like young love, is there? But also, detention to the two lovebirds.”

Harry shrugs at the Gryffindors’ shocked faces, then sits down next to Draco. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, a hand on Draco’s knee under the table.

“I’ll never forgive you,” Draco says solemnly. 

That night, they fuck—and sleep—in Harry’s bed.

Super adorable chibi art of them fondling each other on the broom © @kk1smet! 💖

[moonsaver]

Sumeru roses, House of Daena, Sticky notes.

-------

Being an asisstant for the scribe isn't so bad. Just ignore the persistent overtimes, the scent of your perfume everywhere, and the new ink bottles that keep running out on his desk. You didn't anticipate red being his favorite ink to work with.

A/n: more than 2.5k words. I didnt bother counting. I hsed google translate for arabic whoops sorry not sorry <3 also its been a while since i wrote.

Warnings/tags: reader is g/n, yandere Alhaitham, Alhaitham x reader, stalking, paranoia, obsessive themes, very very subtle mentions of blood (if you squint), kind of drawn out? Horrible arabic google translate quote. Probably OOC but you can ignore that

------

You admit, being an asisstant isn't so bad.

Of course, at first when you broke the announcement to your parents you wanted to further your studies at the Akademiya, your parents werent approving. They wanted you to get a cushy job and earn as soon as possible; you don't blame them. Having that life sounds peaceful, however, you think delaying it a bit won't hurt. You haven't had the proper chance to really scour the library at your own leisure, at least, not as a student.

So, while job-hunting, (which was wonderfully disrupted by the huge Archon-Overthrow-play-god plan for a good few weeks,) you got an offer as the Asisstant of the Grand Sage; which was suspicious from how good of a title it was. The Akademiya was desperate to get back on it's feet, and who were you to deny the offer?

Of course, it didn't quite occur to you until the first day of your job you'd be working alongside Alhaitham, the scribe of the Akademiya (and perhaps his infamous title as the one who curated a plan to foil Azar's shenanigans).

Which was fine. He was generally alright,if not great to work with. Straightforward, clear, brief, analytical and most of all – he wasn't pushy. Which was a relief, of course. You managed to make small talk from time to time (if you could really call it that,) and came to a consensus with him on many things, mostly that both of you were not pleased with overtime. The moment the clock hit 5:00 PM, both of you were out of your offices and posts. You were mutually respectful, and generally tolerated each other well.

Of course, things at your job got shaken up when your schedule was thrown off balance. Your favorite drink always ran out, your mornings were crowded and somehow you started showing up later than usual, which meant you went home later aswell (much to your dismay).

Another strange series of events started taking place, if you could even call it that. You swear you haven't been watering the plants in front of your home, and the soil is dry enough, so how are they so.. vibrant? And recently, you swear one of the plants is growing a little too much, basically covering one of the windows, threatening to break it. Sticky notes scattered around the front of your house which you originally thought of as littering from those raucous kids your neighbours can't keep in control – you only realised they were for you when you caught a glimpse of your name on it, and you can only agree with the suspicious look on your friends’ faces when you show them the notes – bright Canary yellow and the striking red colour across the notes (although, you've only shown them the more milder ones. You can't imagine the panic you'll be forced to acknowledge if they see some of the other.. strange ones.)

And you suppose your paranoia has caught up to you. Your sleep-deprived mind swears that new red coloured bottle of ink on Alhaitham's desk wasn't there. You swear he never used that bright Canary Yellow colour of post-its. Did he really like that drink he always seemed to get for both of you? It conveniently ran out when you wanted it, and even more so, he conveniently just brought an extra since it was on discount? Of course it all just seems like a coincidence. You're a fool to even think otherwise.

And well, you're fine. Your life has always been a long series of fine, even with the occasional weird mishaps. That's how it's always been, and you don't intend to change it; rather, you really do find change almost repulsive (save for the panic you felt deep down in your stomach at all the things you couldn't control). And that “fine” comes to a halt when you find your door absolutely mauled with sticky notes. There's a bouquet of Sumeru Roses at the bottom, as if to try and apologise sheepishly for the terrifying collage on your door. The terrifying numbness in your fingers, face, your brows furrowed as you can't decide just how to react, the elevated heartbeat – you swear you can feel the blood threaten to burst through your chest. 

You opted to stay with a friend that night. You don't know what you were expecting when you came back in the morning, and all of those notes were gone, except a singular one in the middle, “الهوس والحب مترادفان، لكنهما لا يقارنان بارتباط روحي بروحك” (which you had to reread almost 30 times with your broken arabic, checked with someone from the Haravatat Darshan, to really confirm – obsession and love are synonyms, but they are nothing compared to the connection of my soul to yours – is what it said, and it's echoed in your head for weeks). You can't remember the last time you wore your rose perfume after that.

Scouring in the House Of Daena didn't seem to alleviate your troubles that well, either. The books you read one day, and opted to continue the next – vanished. Someone else always had the upper hand. And when they returned, they were scribbled and annotated with many pockets of information. Sometimes they overshadow the information on the page itself. And on the rare occasion you put your head on the books as a makeshift pillow for a power nap, you jolted up from just a sniff. Sumeru roses hit your nose.

And of course, when you find notes with all different handwritings on your desk in the office, you think someone's playing a cruel prank on you. But your office was locked. No one saw anyone enter your office. You did your usual check up before you locked it last night, and assorted everything in place. None of these notes were here. And of course, your only clue is the fact they're all Canary Yellow post-its, and that striking scarlet red ink on it. Hasn't the bottle on Alhaitham's desk been running out? He mentioned it off-handedly. You remember saying blue ink was cheaper. He didn't respond.

–

overtime was disdainful, for the lack of a better word. However, that implies only to the masses – it is no problem for him to come up with better synonyms to describe the situation at hand. “Distasteful”, “loathsome”, “detestable”, and so on. However, complaining will not solve the stacks of files on his desk that he wishes to do away with as soon as possible.

If anything pleases him more than his usual combination of abstruse books, isolation from the general public, and extreme individuality, it is that as the Grand Sage's assistant – you are expected to stay back for the extended hours as much as he is, if not more. For once, working overtime (or being forced to) has brought him progress. Will a few more hours of scribbling away and reviewing files change anything huge? He will return to his post again tomorrow as he has today, and the work will continue. Although, this time, it is you who stays working overtime. So for once, if it manages to quiet down the poking and prodding of other nosy scholars, reprimanding him for never working even a minute after the allocated time, he does so for the exchange of working with you.

And he doesn't intend to burden you, but he knows the desperation you work with, trying your best to cram in any minute, second into trying to get ahold of those books at the House Of Daena. So, if at least to make you stay for longer, he assigns you the more dragged out, tedious work. And to make it better – you just got locked out of your office. He has an extra pair, which he diligently uses for his own interest. As for you; perhaps being so frantic and scrambling to gather all books you might have read the day before may have caused you to drop your keys somewhere along the way. Would he know? Of course – he's diligently collected and added it to his inventory. Would he tell you? It would be like stepping on his own tail. The lack of certainty in a schedule makes for more freedom – he thinks. It's for your own good; he almost says. And to have you work in the same proximity as him? It's a bonus. 

Many consider him to be talented and extraordinarily intelligent, so just take his advice as literally as you can. Or maybe he just needs to tell you directly while making small talk between you two more frequent. To his dismay (and your absolute horror), the sticky notes seem to be working counterproductively. Perhaps he should just show up at your house with a bouquet of Sumeru roses and a small journal filled with his advice? He jests, it's only an entertaining idea. The bewildered look on your face makes him adore you – even if only imaginative.

The lift stops at the top floor. He sees your figure standing beside his desk, an expanse of books behind you. The sharp yellow lights contrast your figure to the dim blue light sphere in the middle. He feels the corners of his mouth perk up into a smile,and stops himself.

Another overtime shift for the both of you.

—

Overtime was not easy. You wouldn't have minded it – the job pays you well, and its quite comfortably tucked into the Akademiya, where no one bothers you, and you can easily access the House of Daena. However, the stress and paranoia has absolutely drained you. 

You've visited the matra recently. Frantically scraping together whatever evidence you can, everytime your “admirer” decided to gift you something new, leaving almost no time in your schedule. Daily visits to the library turned into constant visits to the matra, detailing your issues. You would have opted to stay silent, brushing it off as someone who was.. weirdly shy. But shy people don't stalk you, shy people don't leave obsessive notes for you, shy people don't visit your house at unholy hours of the night. And who knows what else this stalker of yours has been up to recently?

Revenge bedtime procrastination turned into sleepless nights, flinching at every sound, hiding under the covers until there was no oxygen and your entire face was covered in sweat. Workload seemed to increase, from how often you kept messing up, many things clouding your mind. Alhaitham's prickly eyes took notice, and he suggested drinking another beverage aside from coffee in the morning, and offered to get you something else – which you generously refused and turned down. (the last thing you would want to be is in someone else's debt at this time. Even if it's just a drink, who knows what else it could add up to in the future?)

So, here you were; irritated, on edge and in the dimly lit office which was viciously devoid of any natural light. You wonder why someone would want such a stuffy office, with books probably growing mold inside. Sure, it's spacious, but it's utter lack of life in it repulses you. It has the comfort level of a hospital waiting room, and it's just enough to add onto the little things that bother you, on top of everything else.

If that wasn't any better – Alhaitham seemed particularly chatty this evening. Perhaps his parasitic roommate (whom he has lovingly mentioned, multiple times,) has been ignoring him as of late? Maybe a commission in the desert, or a commission that requires a huge amount of unnecessary labour? And the (Acting) Grand Scribe has mentioned several times how the blonde architect works himself almost half to death just to get a smile out of his customers. You painstakingly understand him in silence, and don't comment on it.

The rest of the night continues – the benignity of it isn't lost on you. Occasionally perking up from your own scribbling upon Alhaitham's call, searching for a specific book on the vast (dusty, if you may add) shelves, and commenting on a few meeting topics and research projects he grazes, assigning you a few. He doesn't miss the comical dragging of your feet as you walk back over to your desk, befuddled with more work. He wants to tease you, he wants you to ask him for help, for an extra bottle of ink, for an extra post it note, whatever way in which you ask for his help.

He theorises you don't remember much of your and his student days.

—

“shit, I forgot them.”

You searched the familiar pockets and zips of your bag, scrunched eyebrows in frustration.

“Seriously? I'm not lending you any of mine~”

Your friend laughed. You sigh.

“I let you hog all my lunch and this is what I get as a thank you?”

“Too bad. You don't like the blue coloured ones anyway.”

“I'm desperate for a sticky note. Does it look like I'm in a state to be picky?”

Your friend laughs again, and throws their little compact stack of post-its on your book.

“Fine. But you've already annotated so much, what are you gonna write about?”

“Hmm? Wouldn't you like to know?”

You playfully ignore them, as they chitter behind you; carefully sticking it into your textbook and scribbling down the information before you forget. You sigh and look up. You make eye contact.

Right. It's him.

The grey-haired Haravatat boy that rarely showed up. Everyone knew him for his quiet attitude, and his tendency to make your professor's blood boil due to his absence in every lecture. Your friends had a few inside jokes about him. You would dare say this is your first encounter, or really the only one, with him. A stoic look and a judgmental one at the same time, behind curiously multicoloured eyes. 

Nearing the end of the semester – usually the smart ones would avoid the house of Daena, as it would overflow with study groups of caffeine-run seniors and freshman alike. Some of the other clever ones chose spots that weren't easy to find in the first place, and some chose to simply come early.

The thing is, you didn't come early. You were here from midnight. The librarian and all the security checks probably missed you, since you were neatly tucked away into the corner, taking a well-needed nap on one of your reference materials. You only woke up when one of your friends, and that boy poked and prodded you. Your friend laughed until they were out of breath when you looked up – drool slipping down past your chin, eyes swollen from the lack of sleep (and the incessant crying of an academic student), handwriting illegible from just how drowsy you were. The boy only stood quietly, probably judging your.. mannerisms. You weren't sure how, or why, he sat down at the same table as you and your friend. 

—-

Every once in a while - Alhaitham does use the sticky notes.

He didn't buy them. He wanted to borrow them for a short second, but in your hurry, you gave him the compact stack and left, never looking back. After that, you never got them back. Neither of you had the time, and your fate simply intertwined for a brief moment. Things like these happen.

But you keep appearing in the crowd.

He sees you in a flurry of students, or alone at a desolate desk. On a high-up ladder reaching an impossibly reachable book, crouching down to pick up the several you dropped in the process. Passing by the dull lecture halls as he slipped into the library, following the reference materials his father recommended, picked out neatly from private journals and books. The yellow sticky notes never served him much purpose after a single use. He debated simply keeping them on your desk the next time he saw you, but never quite worked up the courage. He swore the sumeru rose scent gave him a headache.

So, when he heard you were continuing your studies at the Akademiya, he was pleased. Working as a Scribe was a simple job, and his chances of seeing you just increased. And he may have been too ambitious, but it worked greatly in his favour – as he opened up another Assistant role for you. 

He hums, content with his decision to keep the sticky notes. Now - how would he utilise them? He wonders if you remember that friend's handwriting. Simple notes turned into obsessive confessions.

Once in a while turned into almost everyday, the more he observed you.

His obsession alone could become the subject of his own studies – but for now you are his sole interest.

And the next overtime, his first after returning to his post as the Scribe – he decides to finally close the chapter.

Has your perfume always been this sweet? That headache's been catching up to you. All that worrying and panic.. when was the last time you slept?

He opens the door to his office. You stand under the warm light, horrified. Piles of sticky notes crowd your feet. The wall barely peeks through behind you from the sticky notes. He closes the door, and a flurry of them fall from the movement. Both of you stare at each other.

“Alhaitham?”

You remember looking at the collection of sticky notes you'd received over a period of time. Is the red ink turning brown? You swore the color changed. Is it supposed to smell? You don't think you want to know.

“Congratulations. You've made it this far. Ive been waiting to talk to you in private."

Your arms go limp, dropping the stack of files onto the floor. The clock ticks silently. You should have gone home. Your bad habit of staying past closing time and evading the security seemed to have not worked in your favour this time.

----

[olet-lucernam]

A Hollow Promise [4] chapter i, part iv

{_[on AO3]_}

main tags : loki x original character, post-avengers 2012, canon divergence - post-thor: the dark world, canon-typical violence, mentions of torture

-

summary: In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, the Avengers need a few days to build a transport device for the Tesseract. With the Helicarrier damaged and surveillance offline, SHIELD sends an asset to guard Loki in the interim: a young woman who sees the truth in all things, and cannot lie.

Even long presumed dead, her memories lost to her, Loki would know her anywhere.

And this changes things.

Some things last beyond infinity. And the universe is in love with chaos.

(Loki was never looking for redemption. It came as an unexpected side-effect.)

-

chapter summary : awaiting his return to asgard after the battle of new york, loki unexpectedly encounters a familiar face.

recommended listening : lies, will jay

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The chamber stirred with a gentle, constant current, buoyed on the chafe and flutter of flipping pages, the rustle of shifting clothing, the occasional soft noise signifying another person's presence, blending into an ambiance as cleansing as seawater.

If Loki narrowed his vision purely to words printed on pages, and ignored how the fall of light was too even and too white, he could imagine that he was in his library- the mezzanine circling overhead, a coronet of darkly polished rosewood, tall windows thrown open to altitude-cold air and the rich, warm vanilla of the cordolium roses twining across the balcony, the glare of midday softened by a great fall of gossamer curtains billowing and sighing against the glass.

It was easy to imagine her reclined across from him, on a richly cushioned chaise instead of a cheap plastic chair that was turning her flesh numb, draped in lustrous silks and sunlight.

Predictably enough, Loki ended up altering the list that she had given him. Partway through the opening of Othello, Iago's speech- for when my outward action doth demonstrate the native act and figure of my heart, in complete extern, 'tis not long after but I shall wear my heart upon my sleeve for daws to peck at: I am not what I am- made him realise that he knew the play, opting to skip ahead into Much Ado About Nothing.

Benedick had just been tricked into believing Beatrice was in love with him when his guard emerged from her own book, popping out her headphones, trading her history of medicine in antiquity for Austen's final novel. Loki took the opportunity to comment on Beatrice and Benedick being as viciously witty and deliberately obtuse as each other- and therefore a perfect match, as they were the only ones in the world who could satisfy the other. She agreed laughingly, making a point about the couple being equals first and foremost, and they quickly fell into discussion.

With minimal nudging, she admitted that she considered The Merchant of Venice to be Shakespeare's best work.

"He wasn't a zeitgeist, by any means. He just wrote people, in all their petty dramas and their potential greatness, co-existing alongside the other," she argued, alight and impassioned. "The Merchant of Venice encapsulates all of it- serendipity and ingenuity, wit and idiocy, cruelty and compassion, all human passions, foibles, and faults. It's that timeless, endless waltz of humanity, circling back around to itself. That's what captures the imagination. It speaks directly to something immutable, in the soul of being alive."

Loki narrowed his eyes at her.

"You've rehearsed that, haven't you?"

She lifted one shoulder guiltily.

"I've been refining it for over a decade," she confessed, propping her chin on the heel of her palm. "What do you think?"

"Convincing enough that I am obliged to hate you slightly," he said briskly, eliciting a muffled giggle. "I dislike being outmatched."

"I hadn't noticed," she said, brightly sardonic, before abating, softening. "Would you settle for being equally matched?"

Loki arched an eyebrow. "You consider us equally matched?"

"Of course I do, I've heard you talk," she retorted, disarmingly candid even when he was expecting it. "I'm not too proud to admit that, if I were capable of lying to myself, you might have persuaded me that I actually did hesitate to come down here. Given half a chance, I think you could summon the stars from the skies, charm the sun into rising in the west, and sweet-talk the moon into releasing the tides."

Loki burned at her words.

They were spoken with the air of nothing less than casually stated fact, hitting his bloodstream like a shot of liquor and setting his heart pounding a demand of moremoremore in his chest.

"I think this is the most intellectually stimulating conversation I've had in months," she added absently.

"Surely SHIELD isn't populated entirely by imbeciles," Loki reasoned, silently willing the heat under his skin to cool and disperse. Myopic though they may be.

"It's populated entirely by spies," she replied, mouth slanting into a sickle of displeasure, "and I am a living lie detector. They all gravitated towards me at first, for the perceived challenge of it. I think they even had a betting pool. But once they realised that no, they can't get a lie past me, no matter how good a liar they are, the lustre wore off rather quickly. I'm kept quarantined, essentially. No one wants to risk a careless slip and have me collecting their secrets."

"Because you are an outsourced asset," Loki extrapolated.

"Because I am an outsourced asset," she echoed blandly, "yes."

"That, and people are often too eager to equate honesty with gullibility, thereby inferring stupidity. They make the assumption that your mind is not worth engaging, or only on their own limited terms, for their own limited purposes." Loki grinned, vulpine and unscrupulous. "More fool them. Unwitting opponents make for such poor sport, don't you think?"

Her tension began to unfurl.

"Fair sport, but in terms of fairness, it's not very sporting," she quipped archly. "Such a contest may be contested."

Loki felt the delight coil up through him, like paper curling under tongues of flame, blackening and glimmering ember-gold at the edges like calcified ribbons of lace.

"But where fight and flight are forbidden," he replied, "one may be bidden forth to bid for flyte."

Laughter spilled out of her, leaving Loki masking his own mirth through his fingers.

She gusted out a contented sigh, dipping her head back.

"Stars above, this is so refreshing."

Loki hummed his agreement, relaxing against the back wall of the cell. "My poor, clever darling. I can only imagine how bored and isolated you were, your wit wasted and blunted on them." He paused, calculating. "Then again, perhaps not. I would bet that you have as many of SHIELD's secrets tucked in your arsenal as I. Some, even, that SHIELD is unaware that they are keeping."

She levelled him with an unreadable gaze.

"Zhī bǐ zhījǐ, bǎizhànbùdài," she quoted.

Loki smiled faintly, remaining fixed on her as a compass needle drawn to true north.

"Somehow I doubt that SHIELD's commanders have studied The Art of War," he said. "I suspect that they prefer Nietzsche- as edited posthumously by his sister."

Her lips curled, her cupid's bow deepening.

"My copies are the more recent editions," she told him. "Post-sixties publications."

"Ah, I thought as much. Your taste skew towards the unfiltered versions."

"But if I hadn't read those versions," she pressed, "you would have made the recommendation?"

Loki indicated the stack of books she had given him- relocated from the hollow pillar, stacked next to him on the bench- with an elegant upwards flick of his wrist.

"It seems only right to return the favour," he said neutrally. "And I wouldn't want SHIELD's inferior tastes corrupting you."

She scoffed lightly. "Unlikely. But- I appreciate the sentiment. Although, speaking of brazen antisemitism," she made the transition with a clean pivot, posture shifting with the topic, "what did you make of Shylock's character?"

Loki took her cue, and they stepped away from the conversation, the metaphor wearing dangerously thin. She had said that surveillance in the room was intermittent, not disabled- and Loki would rather not risk one of the many heads of the serpent overhearing something that would put her within its sights.

Instead, they plunged back into safer waters. They debated heatedly over whether Shylock was written intentionally sympathetic, or whether that was the lens of interpretation, or whether it truly mattered thanks to the maxim of death of the author, birth of the reader. They agreed that Portia's speech in regards to mercy was almost satirically undermined once the tables were turned, but Loki was pleasantly surprised when she made a case for the court scene being less of a triumph of justice, and more of an even match between two ruthless, intelligent players, with the cleverer and more effective party claiming victory. They discussed how Shakespearean tragedy was rooted in the protagonist's virtue being turned to vice by circumstance- Loki sugared that were the titular leads of Othello and Hamlet switched, Hamlet's wit and introspection would have foiled Iago's machinations at the outset, while Othello's quickness to action would have seen Claudius dead without any collateral damage.

"You're familiar with Othello," she commented, eyebrows raised. "Hamlet, I expected, but not Othello."

"Exceptions to the rule," Loki admitted. "The sonnets and historical plays were always of greater interest to me." He thumbed the spine of the anthology, before flipping the front cover open to the contents page, printed in the historical font. "Speaking of which, I had hoped you might give me a substitute for Othello. What would you suggest?"

"Oh- let me think." She shifted in the plastic chair, twisting in a half-conscious, fruitless attempt to find a more comfortable position. "What about- maybe The Tempest? It's a revenge tale, almost a spiritual antithesis to Othello. And it's one of Shakespeare's last plays, often thought to be his personal farewell to the stage."

"Choosing one of the latest, rather than one of his earliest? Interesting choice."

"It seems fairer to me. He'd had decades to develop his craft by then."

"Ah, but I never said that I was inclined to be fair." Loki ran a finger down the first page of the contents, noting that the plays were arranged in chronological order. "And you know a person best by their flaws." He paused, brow creasing slightly. "Titus Andronicus. Did I miss one of the Roman plays?"

To his surprise, when Loki looked up, she was attempting to surpress a wince.

"Ah, no. Correct period setting, but Titus Andronicus is one of his fictional tragedies."

Loki raised his eyebrows at the suspiciously scant description. "That bad?"

She bit her lower lip, hard enough to whiten the flesh.

"It's not badly written. I just- don't enjoy it. Much like Coriolanus, it just- hurts."

It was a strange admission, almost childishly puerile, from someone with so much age in her eyes.

"I wouldn't think you the type to shy away from pain." Loki broached carefully. "You're too honest for that- to avoid it, or pretend that it doesn't exist."

"I know the value of pain," she said sharply. "I’ve used it as fuel, or endured it as the price to be paid, taken it as a lesson. But-" Her entire form clenched in a righteous fury, welling from deep hurt. "Gratuitous pain, waste of life- it's anathema, to me. It breeds despair, and despair is a paralytic. You stop feeling. Your soul dies. Because why care, if that's all there is? I witness enough brutal truths in reality. I don't need to experience pointless death and suffering through fiction as well."

Loki watched her- tenser than he had seen her yet, glaring past him, haunted and angry and achingly powerless.

"You value life."

She startled back to him.

Her emotions cluttered over each other, flipping to the fore and back again like the shuffle of a card trick, shifting too quickly to track or decode.

"I wouldn't be who I am if I didn't."

"And I wouldn't be who I am if I did," Loki concluded on her behalf, "yes?"

"I never said that-"

"But is it a lie?"

She clenched her teeth into the inside of her cheek, subtly hollowing the flesh around bone.

His eyes narrowed, lilting into mockery.

"Have I upset you?"

With a kick, she uncrossed her legs violently, her heel slamming to the floor with a rattling bang.

He thought, for a moment, that he had finally made her snap.

"You hurt something that I care for." Her voice was harnessed heatstroke. "You damaged a corner of this world, and I resent that."

Loki exhaled a cruel laugh.

"And what a world it is," he said, tone drenched in vicious contempt. "Ruled by hypocrites and tyrants, built on the profits of slaughter and exploitation, adulating killers and liars- is this the measure of humanity? The sum of its oeuvre, the culmination of its greatness? Yet the mortal heroes have the gall to think themselves better, to lecture and preach virtue from on high. What right have they to judge what is moral?"

"What gives you the right to disdain them?!" She exploded.

"Centuries of experience, beloved!" Loki snarled, his cadence dissolving into venom and shards of grinding ice. "Experience is a harsh teacher, but it is the most reliable one you will ever find! I have seen into the void. There is nothing beyond the chaos and pain. There is no grand scale of justice, no cosmic morality, no higher meaning. We are playthings of an indifferent universe, and even you, darling, for all your shining virtues, will not be spared. It will tarnish and devour that fierce, golden heart of yours until there is nothing left of you. Existence is empty. Life's meaning is but a shadow on the wall. It is an illusion. A comforting lie."

Her expression was hard.

"So what?"

Loki stilled.

"What?"

"So what if it's a lie?"

Loki stared at her, bewildered.

"You're right." She said calmly. "I've looked. As far as I can tell, life has no purpose. Nothing matters. There is no grand order, no destiny, no- burden of glorious purpose," she quoted, faintly derisive. "The universe is in love with chaos. Existence is a hollow promise. Take the universe and grind it down to the finest powder, and sieve it through the finest sieve, and show me one atom of justice, one molecule of mercy-"

"I don't know those words," Loki cut in waspishly.

“Pratchett,” she said. “From one of the books I gave you. He made a point about the stories we tell ourselves, the things we make ourselves believe in, even if they’re not true. Especially if they’re not true.”

Shoulders lifting into a shrug, she softened, achingly bittersweet.

“Not all lies are evil. And not all lies have to remain lies. So take the great cosmic lie, and make it true. Make it real. Make it matter because you have decided that it matters. The emptiness and the chaos is just- freedom. To take the hollow promise, and fill it in. To choose a glorious purpose. Confronted with that- why would you want something else?”

Loki pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth.

"It's a pretty concept."

"I've seen it too," she said quietly, "the abyss. I've seen it in me, like you, and it frightened me. But I've made my choice. What's yours?"

"That," he said scathingly, "ought to be obvious."

"Except it's not," she said, her expression ruthlessly bright. "The more I see of you, the more I am convinced that you are everything but obvious."

"You have nothing but wishful thinking, darling," Loki replied coldly. "Nothing more than the desire to create meaning where there is none."

"I have that fact that you lied to me."

"You will have to be far more specific than that."

"No I won't, which is fascinating in and of itself, by the way," she said briskly, "but anyway- you told me that I should be afraid of you. That was a lie. And given your exploits in New Mexico, Nevada, Germany, and New York- basic logic indicates that it really should not be a lie. So why isn't it true?"

She already suspected the answer. She would not have presented substantive proof posed as a rhetorical question unless she did.

There was no answer he could give that she couldn't use to drag herself closer to the truth, no lie he could speak that wasn't as good as a confession.

Loki neither answered her, nor lied.

"It's interesting that you mentioned Coriolanus," he mused. "As I said, tragedy makes what would otherwise be a virtue into a vice. For Caius Martius Coriolanus, his downfall was his refusal to be dishonest, even when it would serve his purposes. He wore his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at."

She straightened, mouth set in a concrete-hard line.

Of course. If she had understood his oblique reference to Nietzsche in less than a sentence, decoding such a flagrant gibe would be child's play.

Slowly, gaze never breaking his, she unfolded her left arm from across her body and drew the fitted sleeve up to her elbow, the skin of her inner forearm exposed, the inside of her wrist bared.

Loki wondered how such a gesture of surrender could be fused with so much defiance.

"It's a risk." Her fingers clenched, flexed, tendons shifting and rippling like shafts of light breaking through clouds. "Embarrassing yourself enough to ask for what you truly want, but- who could refrain, that had a heart to love, and in that heart, courage to make love known?"

Loki's heart seized up.

"So," she said, contemplating the delicate creases of her wrist through her lashes, "you could devour it in the marketplace-"

"Or?" Loki prompted before he could stop himself, daring her to complete the thought.

She raised her eyes to his with a steady blink.

"Or you could let your tongue slip and call me beloved again."

Loki knew how to read people. It was a necessity, a natural aptitude tempered to a keen edge over the centuries.

Her entire self was written on the surface of her skin, in high fidelity- a manuscript penned in shifting iridescent ink, wrought in poetic conceit, brimming with symbolism and equivoque. She offered herself candidly, in absolute, but remained impenetrable to anyone lacking the patience and motivation to parse the script and unlock the meaning.

And now, in that moment, where others might glance across her and read a challenge- for the first time since she had stepped into the room, Loki realised she had made herself vulnerable. He could see the fear and hope warring inside her, pulling her taut as a garotte, fastening her in place.

Loki looked away.

Weak, his mind hissed, venomous and taunting,

On his periphery, he watched the disappointment sink through her.

Or perhaps that was relief.

It was another stalemate. Neither of them had gained any ground. Or, if they had, it was pyrrhic.

Pulling back, resettling amongst the ashes, she tucked herself back up into her copy of Persuasion.

Inside the cell, Loki retrieved the Shakespearean anthology, and split it open to the first act of Titus Andronicus.

-

[PREVIOUS] | [MASTERLIST] | [NEXT]

[omgpurplefattie]

Twenty Questions for Fic Writers

@nutcasewithaknife tagged me!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

49

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

320,560 -- they do pile up

What fandoms do you write for?

Started out with Star Trek TOS in the 1990s, now fully in several c-drama fandoms which I all throw in together in a modern AU.

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

All English -- short funny Loki/Darcy fic I wrote for another Milliways player during the original MCU craze. Loki is robbed of his magic and a) stays blue b) can't understand a word c) hides in the lab.

Am I The Asshole For...? -- Jin Guangyao describes the 3zun dynamic in an AITA formatted ask piece. Modern AU or not, depending on how you look at it.

Blue Monsters -- sequel to 'All English'. Loki hates the movie 'Avatar'.

A Matter of Priorities -- the original fic in my expanding City AU for several C-dramas. After years of being friends with benefits with Ye Baiyi, Rong Changqing gets his shit together.

Merely a Cat -- Jin Guangyao is reincarnated as Lan Xichen's cat. 5 + 1 things, canonverse.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Always! I feel so flattered.

What is a fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Never Held Him -- Ye Baiyi reminisces about the death of Rong Changqing. Canonverse, hard interpretation.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

A Polycule With Many Pointy Corners -- because at the end, Shulin is alive, Peizhi still loves him, and he gets to keep the baby. Part of my City AU.

Do you get hate on fics?

I did -- on both the AITA fic and 'Merely a Cat'. That was the time of the Xiyao Troll, who was so nasty and persistent they actually put some people off writing for the fandom altogether. I got the troll on the AITA fic, then realised it was a Known Problem, and then wrote the Jiggy!cat fic to pull aggro and take part in a fic exchange the fandom organised in order to drive the troll to distraction. I wrote Eternal Sunshine of a Drunken Lan for that exchange, and received a lovely, lovely visual take on my 3zun AITA concept.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Yes! I am going light on it in "Detoxify" so far, but sometimes, the plot needs it. Also, I tend to think that the characters deserve to bone. I very much thought that Ye Baiyi deserves to get all the sex from Rong Changqing, which is why "A Matter of Priorities" is very E-rated even though the sex as such is not the point.

Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

Yes, totally. The City AU, with lots of C-Drama characters all in the same modern AU and involved in each other's lives, is my main series now with more than 120K words.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not as far as I know

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Nope

What's your all-time favorite ship?

Always my current blorbos!

What's a wip you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

The World of the Morning After -- Ye Baiyi is isekai'd into a world where everything went well, he is with Rong Changqing, and they're both immortal. He immediately decides that it's too good to be truth and he won't have anything of it in order not to get hurt even worse. I posted two chapters, mostly wrote the third, and ran out of steam. Luckily, I have a complete and detailed outline in which I re-shuffle the entire plot of SHL/TYK to hinge on Ye Baiyi's happy ending. Spoiler: he's there to make sure WenZhou get together in that branch of reality, too.

What are your writing strengths?

Nasty surprises.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Consistency; I tend to go off on tangents.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I write everything in another language; English isn't my first language. That said, the special turn of phrase of saying "Our/your A-Fei/HuaHua/Xiaobao" that gets the trio by the feels every time somebody uses it in "Detoxify" makes a lot more sense in Chinese.

First fandom you wrote for?

Star Trek

Favorite fic you've written?

Not choosing!

Tagging @eleanorfenyxwrites @atthelamppost @dangerouscommiesubversive (no pressure)

If you're a fic writer, feel free to give it a go even if you're not tagged!!

[the-al-chemist]

Fic Writer’s 20 Questions!

Thank you so much @whatwouldvalerydo for tagging me in this game - the original post was getting very long so I thought I would post separately.

How many works do you have on A03?

18!

What’s your total A03 word count?

789,856

What fandoms do you write for?

Harry Potter, including spin offs

What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

The first five Hexley Saga stories, though not in order. In descending order it goes: Mystery, Portrait, Figures, Forest, Staircase.

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I do, because I appreciate every comment I receive. I am slow to respond, because I don’t always see them when it’s convenient to reply, and then I forget what I have or haven’t replied to. I’m very disorganised.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

I’m not sure if any have truly angsty endings, I tend to like my angst mixed with happiness and humour for something bittersweet. In that vein, maybe Into the Light of the Dark Black Night. However, The Wilderness Years ends on an open and not overly optimistic note.

What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Again, not many have a wholly happy ending… Probably the Hexley Saga, though there is a touch of sadness even to that.

Do you get hate on fics?

I haven’t done, no. I’ve had readers (understandably) drop out after one specific character death, but no actual hate for it. I guess there’s a first time for everything.

Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

I have done, once or twice. I’m not good at it. As for what type… Bad smut? Awkward smut? Idk, I’m just too British for this.

Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

… I’m not even 100% sure what this is so I’m going to say no.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

A touchy subject. No, I haven’t, but I have had and occasionally continue to have issues with aspects of my stories being taken and put into others’ works in ways that have made it obvious that it isn’t a coincidence, but not in ways that I have felt justified in reporting plagiarism on any publishing sites. I have, however, learnt how the Tumblr block button can come in handy.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

No. When in France this spring I considered translating the Hexley Saga into French to help me get my language skills back up but I quickly realised how much work this would be and decided against it.

Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes - When Stars Ignite was (and still is) a collaboration between me and @lifeofkaze. It was (and still is) an amazing experience and massive learning curve.

What’s your all time favorite ship?

Forever Gomez and Morticia Addams.

What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Whichever one I’m currently writing - I get to the point in every long form story that I think I’ll never finish it. So far, I’ve proved myself wrong.

What are your writing strengths?

Generally: I’m dedicated and very deliberate in my approach. For every single choice I make in my writing, I have a rationality behind it. There is a lot of method in my madness. Also, when I get the wind in my sails, I’m speedy.

Technically: characterisation, humour, emotionality, dialogue.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Generally: good old impostor syndrome and being an incredibly disorganised person.

Technically: action scenes, angst, smut.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

Ahh, this is awkward. I actually… am not a massive fan of this. Before you call me a hypocrite (which is a fair criticism here), I think foreign language dialogue is great when it works, but when it’s not done right, it’s completely alienating for a reader and can ruin the story. And it’s hard to get right. So, although I do use it, I don’t enjoy using it, because involves so much work and causes so much anxiety.

My rule when I do use it is that it has to add an extra layer of meaning and enjoyment for people who do understand it or want to look up the translation without taking away from the meaning and enjoyment of people who don’t. I have broken this rule once, because sometimes it’s fun to break the rules, and because I wanted to alienate my readers. I’m actually really proud of the effect it created, so here is a link to this rule-breaking.

First fandom you wrote for?

Jill Murphy’s The Worst Witch, circa 2001.

Favorite fic you’ve written?

That’s a mean question. The answer is probably On This Wild Night, but that one isn’t published yet, so I’m going to choose a few. Figures in the Shadows, because it was the first one where I first felt like my style came naturally to me, Eggshells because it was the first one created in a moment of inspiration, When Stars Ignite because of the friendship that was strengthened in the writing process, Learning to Fly because Charlie Weasley, and Return to the Riddles, because finishing the Hexley Saga was such an achievement and the culmination of two years of hard work that I really hope paid off.

Tagging: @katherinewilliams221b @liiilyevans @turanga4

[galactic-pirates]

Ask Game for writers: 1, 7, 10. 😀

In which I should have read this more carefully 🤣 I saw it was about WIPs and didn’t realise it was so fic focused. I guess I could answer this two ways. I could convert it to art which is fandom, or I could vague talk my original novels. Maybe both? 🤔

1) 🦈Tell us the name of your/ one of your WIP(s)

Hmm well I don’t want to share the name of my original novel 🫣 I know I probably should but I get afraid about it. I sort of put up a division between “personal fan me” and “career me”. Not that I have a career (yet) but I can dream.

As for art well that doesn’t have names exactly, and also I don’t have WIPs in the same way. I have a list of ideas and I tend to take one, and finish it, rather than juggle several projects like I did fanfic.

I am currently signed up to the Librarians Exchange and I will be making something for that. I probably shouldn’t talk about that though because of the whole ‘secret’ gifter thing.

I would like to pick one idea off the list and say “I’ll do that next” and talk about it but truthfully what I am hoping to do is practice basic techniques. I spoke about this earlier with my frustration at being stuck with the ‘tracing’ and wanting to do it properly. I don’t know if I will be able to ‘teach myself’ to any level so that I can use it for the exchange. I mean I have had literal years to do so and not got anywhere with it so far 🤷‍♂️ I got a new sketchbook (because clearly the half dozen I already had weren’t enough) but maybe this time I will commit. I got some erasable coloured pencils and sketching in purple seems very fun so 🤞

7) 🖍Post Any sentence from your wip

As said I can’t really do this. I wish I had some kind of sketch to show, but again as I said art “WIPs” are more just ideas unless I am mid-project and I’m not right now.

To make up for not answering this I have picked another question for you.

11) 🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

For my original novel quite a lot of things 😂 but description is usually the hardest part. I can see it in my head but it’s so clunky when I try and write it down. Way too much frowning or smiling going on lol. I am trying to use more body language and less dialogue tags but I need to find more variety in it.

For the art it’s like I said I have my current process of bashing together a bunch of different references. Sometimes this includes selfies when I am struggling to get limb angles to match what’s in my imagination, but it just doesn’t work. It’s a) botched together so a lot of the angles are just slightly off/mismatched and it is unnatural and b) so stiff with no flow/life. It has zero style.

10) 🤡How many Wips are you actively working on?

Well I am actively drafting one original novel. I have benched the redraft I am 1/4 of the way through, the first draft I need to reboot, the first draft I am only about 70% finished with, and the first draft I only wrote a bit of (I think that covers them 🤔). But really it’s just the one for “actively working on”.

For art… well I can’t lose sight of the gift exchange. I’m wondering if I should pick up ‘Sketch a Day’ again. I definitely want to do the 100 heads challenge. I got a copy of the Loomis Method book (heads and hands) and I think I should go through that. Same with Hamptons book (figure drawing). I was doing some screenshot redraws from “What If?” as I adore that art style. I can’t seem to pick a medium (paint, pencils, markers, ink) and so there’s so many options for rendering practice. It’s a bit overwhelming to be honest all of everything I want to work on.

Thanks for the ask ❤️

[infallible-dreamers]

Fanfic Origin Story

Tagged by the lovely @bekkachaos. Thank you for the tag. Sorry I'm so late.

What was your first fandom (reading and/or writing)?

I was once and forever a shawol (fan of Kpop group Shinee for those who don't know), and started of reading and writing for Shinee back when I was 16 on asian fanfics and falling down a rabbit hole of fandom. My ships were 2min (my OTP!! Minho and Taemin), Jongyu (Jonghyun and Onew), and Onkey (Onew and Key).

What was first story you ever wrote.

It was for the Joonew fic (Joon from MBLAQ and Onew from Shinee) which surprisingly wasn't even my OTP. This is probably all really weird for people who don't know the 2nd generation Kpop bands.

What's a piece of advice you would give your younger fic writing self?

Write what you want, just have fun. It's not about how many comments or kudoses or even who reads your work. It's about you and how happy it makes you.

What’s an early fandom interaction that stuck with you (be it a nice comment , a friend you made, a fic that got a lot of feedback)

I think my favourite early fandom experience was that my twin and I used to make posters and book trailers and although it was a lot of work and we could only ever take 10 requests per release. I loved doing it. Unfortunately we both got way too busy to do it anymore.

Post a sentence or two from an older fic and a sentence or two from a newer one (if you want)

From a million flowers may bloom. A westallen story set in 1940s. Its from 2015 so I still consider it old.

The thing that struck Iris about working in a newspaper was no one wanted her to do anything important. The most they let her do was organise the articles or run reports from one journalist to another. But she was itching to write. Her editor brushed it off, giving her more menial tasks. That’s how she was stuck trying to organize a photographer for the new crime journalist.

Barry Allen, the new journalist had just transferred in after working 3 years as some sort of hotshot consultant with the cops. Iris was a little peeved that a man that had little journalistic experience was already writing pieces before her. But what could she do, her college degree seemed to mean nothing in the long run.

From against a rule set for us by time. My most recent malex time travel story.

Instead of answering, Alex just sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he collected his racing thoughts. The silence only served to heighten Michael’s anxiety. He had jumped the gun and now Alex was going to feel awkward around him - or worse - hate him. 

Alex doesn’t have to regret this, he reminded himself – he could undo it.

Realisation quickly followed by panic washed over Alex’s face. “Don’t go back!” Alex’s hand returned to Michael’s chest to stop him as if he could hear his thoughts. He looked afraid.

Tagging these lovely beings if they feel like it💕 @4ever-the-nme @theartofdreaming1 @alex-guerin @heart-like-paper

[thomine]

POST-FIC TALK: like a ripple in a pond

Basic Stats

pairing: heizou / reader

time: i started working on this fic a day after valentine's day... so this fic took months.

total word count: 18k words, close to 19k words. i know... i'm shocked myself... but it makes sense considering this fic had 6 drafts. 5 drafts just for fleshing out the story and the 6th to touch up on the 5th draft.

deviation: 4/5

*deviation from original is on a scale of 1-5, 1 being there was no change and 5 being it was completely changed.

⠀

Notes

i was so close to giving up on this fic. but i badly wanted to write something for heizou and this was the only idea i had for him. i didn't want to add any more wips, lol. but, somehow, after my friend briefly lamented about the heizou drought, i had this conviction that i would get this heizou fic written. i partially did the heizou hang out and suddenly, the story i was battling with for 4 drafts came together in the 5th. it's not magic, but writing really feels like magic sometimes, haha. wrote 4k words in one sitting, and then proceeded to add and adjust it for the fic to be what it is. i'm really excited to share this because i wanted to break through and write longer fics, and this is proof that i can do it! so i'm really happy!

⠀

Deviation

now, with 5 drafts... you might be wondering... what the heck happened? a lot. a lot changed and a lot stayed. you can check out my thoughts as i worked on the story through this tag on my wip blog.

this was originally supposed to be a valentine's day fic, because i had this idea of using valentine's day couple promotions. the idea was fake dating, with heizou and reader pretending to be a couple to get some delicious katusdon, only for heizou to not appear for the next year. that year, reader, determined to get the discount, went with a random stranger they could rope into their plan. it worked, but unfortunately, the rules changed the next year where couples have to prove their relationship. this made heizou kiss reader and they go back and talk about the kiss because, surprise, surprise, both of them actually liked each other!

but the reason why it was not working was... the more i wrote, the harder it was to justify why heizou disappeared for that one year. and details were just not aligning with each other. for example, a year's time is very long. so what if someone appears with different partners? a lot can happen in a year. and i couldn't write the ending scene where reader comes to their senses and realise they do like heizou.

as i was fumbling for ideas, i remembered the titles that a good friend of mine gave. one of them was LIES, AND THE TRUTH THEY REVEAL, so i started leaning more towards the idea of reader lying about their feelings.

unfortunately, that did not work out too well. but, one day, as i was just chilling, i had this sudden thought that... when you're infatuated with someone, sometimes you'll lie to yourself to go to certain places so that you can bump into them. it's a little bit like stalking but this point is for another story. i tried to expand on the idea that reader was visiting places that heizou would be... but heizou was really hard to track down... like. he would only be found if he wanted to be found, so reader's efforts wouldn't be fruitful (unless i went full stalker route with the story, which i played around with for a while). this was the start of the 4th draft iirc…

at one point i decided not to have a kiss scene. (sorry, my only idea of romance is kissing.) as i started expanding on this idea of "going somewhere in hopes to bump into the person you like"... somehow the kiss scene came back, LOL.

playing heizou's story quest really helped as i managed to pick out traits he liked in a person, as well as his mentality and attitude towards some things, which also sort of explained why the first idea didn't work out for him. probably another character, but not heizou.

welp. so in conclusion, the story deviated a lot. the kiss scene stayed, and reader's reluctance to admit they liked heizou also stayed. or more like liking heizou is a dangerous game, something i wrote half-heartedly in one of my earlier drafts. i even shared that snippet but i wasn’t sure why i felt that paragraph was good. i guess that's the core of the fic?

⠀

Title

some might have realised that... the title in my WIP masterlist is not the same as the title i ended up going with. another title i considered was UN-CON A CON MAN. however, the story somehow did not involve a lot of lying at all? or at least, if i were to use the titles for a story, i would like it to have more lying and scheming involved, which this fic does not. so i went through my list of titles and stumbled upon LIKE RIPPLES IN A POND. i don't really know why i was drawn to it, but i chose it, and it made draft 5 really smooth.

it was only during the beta phase did i think deeper about the connection between the title and the story. i quite like the implications because what i came up with was... in heizou's point of view, ripples can only happen if another ripple happened. like, there needs to be a sequence of events, which ties to his disbelief in coincidence. a lot of the fic talks or briefly mentions how reader and heizou meet each other again. everything is supposed to feel like a coincidence but if you think about it, it's not. it's because of a previous action that laid the foundation for the next, and the next.

for reader's point of view... i added it somewhere in the story but they are compared to a ripple because their actions are small but make a large impact. the character of reader is someone pretty submissive or unwilling to hear their own feelings, so they have a lot of pent up emotions and desires that they don't voice, and this is something only intuitive and observant heizou noticed in the story. (bertha doesn't count because reader had to say it for her to be like... oh... oh man :( you need to speak up!! she probably would not have learned of this if she didn't pester reader about them rejecting her invitations to tour the city together. i don't know if i made that clear.)

do i wish i incorporated the title more closely with the writing style? a little, but at the same time i wanted the fic to focus more on the mystery than the poetry, and i do not have the skills to weave both poetic prose with the sense of... mystery. if that make sense.

⠀

Overall

again, sometimes writing feels like magic. i don't really know how to explain how i got from one point to another. most of it is done by instinct or feelings that something is right and something is wrong. another thing is... sometimes i don't even know the meaning of some decisions until much later, when i can piece back the dots. it can be really frustrating to write like that, but i think it's also equally satisfying because you'll be surprised by what you can do.

i hope to be able to write more fics like these! and also be able to sharpen my eyes to eventually write long fics more smoothly. or to also train myself to have a bit more control in senses so i can be more directive with writing rather than just "go with the flow". (balance is good.)

this is probably the most i've written for a story. it's pretty encouraging, haha.

[krcdgamedev]

Deytah loading

I was halfway through writing the post about the battle system when I realized I didn't actually have the moves data loaded yet, lol.

Like I mentioned before, I'm working on a Pokemon X/Y remake to fill in the gaps not yet created for my original game (maps, plot etc). At the moment it's kind of a hybrid situation, where the species and mechanics are for the original game while the maps and scenario are from X/Y. But at some point I'll need to decouple them, making a full original game map and scenario for the one, and a Pokemon game system for the other (not really necessary, but if I want to show it off as a portfolio piece it actually being Pokemon would be less confusing. Also I just want to). And you know, I'd really like to just keep them both in the same Godot project for as long as possible. And I'd like to be able to just cut the folders for those projects out and release the base code with a default/sample project.

So what I'm trying to say is, my method for loading species/move/etc data is going to be a little bit stupid.

Since I have two game projects that need to be easily swapped between, I don't want to have species etc data loaded directly as a singleton, which would probably be the most sane and normal option. So I'll do it like this:

A data-handler.gd file, loaded globally as just 'd' for easy access, contains the project folder string. On loading, this file uses the folder name to load the required data files- species, moves, map list, a few other things like the default starting map (which might be a title sequence or new/load game menu, but during dev it's whichever map I'm working on at the moment). For example, species.gd is loaded into the "species" variable. You can access the species data dictionary directly with like "d.species.species["species-ID-goes-here"]["name or whatever data you're getting"]" but ideally you'd want to call d.species.get_whatever(speciesID).

If the folder isn't found, the game loads "default-project" instead, then loads species, moves etc from there. So, if I just dump the project files minus the original and Pokemon project folders onto Github, people can just download it, fire it up and it'll Just Work(tm), loading a little demo project they can play around with, without changing anything. Thus, none of my original content do not steal will end up in the open source files and the only evidence of me volating Nintendo's copyright will maybe be the string "pokemon-project" somewhere in the data file.

While doing this I realised that the scripttags file already had project-specific tags in it, namely types, but fixing that is as easy as adding another layer of extension and using that instead:

You guys can have this default NOTYPE tag though, that's free

Anyway, while I was at it I wrote a basic move-file-re-writer for moves like I did for species. This one is a bit more complicated as not all tags are needed; for example, if a move doesn't have a secondary effect it doesn't really need the effect tag, nor does it need the "effacc" (effect accuracy, ie chance of the effect happening) tag. I also decided that moves with a guaranteed effect (like moves that do the effect and nothing more) don't need the effacc tag either. For the moment status-only moves aren't properly marked as such, just having damage set to 0 or -1 to indicate it. (Not that status moves are implemented yet anyway.) For Monstars there's no special-physical split, so it might not need anything but that, but for a real Pokemon-like engine you'd need a tag for physical versus special so you'd just put the status tag there too. Could a damage value of 0 versus a damage value of -1 or lower be used to indicate something? I dunno, probably not. Also included as "moves" are player actions like switching, using an item and trying to run, which have special coding to not fill them out with any data aside from a high priority. (Of all things move priority is one of the first thing fully implemented in the battle system lol)

With that I'm probably ready to move on to implementing the battle system in this version of the project.

[karahalloway]

How did you get into fanfiction?

I used to be obsessed with Neverwinter Nights and Neverwinter Nights 2 (a old PC RPG game from the early 2000s that was set in the Dungeons & Dragons universe) because at that time I was really into the fantasy genre.

After I finished playing the games, I wanted more, and I think around that time I also happened to chance upon Fanfiction.net, which is a AO3 style website where you can publish fanfic based on fandom. I joined up - initially just as a reader - and went looking for NWN-based fanfic, and eventually started posting some of my own stuff.

In terms of Choices/TRR specifically, I was playing some other game on my phone (this was around the end of 2019, so just before lockdown) and an ad for Choices popped up and I liked the concept/look of the game, so I decided to download it. I had a look through all the books and the first one that caught my eye was TRR.

I played through the first book and loved it, and started looking for fanfic, which is how I ended up discovering Wattpad. I also noticed that there were several things in the story that were incorrect/unrealistic, so I decided that this may be a good opportunity for me to pick up writing again, by doing my own take on the story (at this point, I hadn't written anything for over 10 years because... life).

2. What was the first fandom you wrote for?

Hmm... Not sure which came first, but The Witcher and Dragon Age (orginal game). I started writing fanfic because my boyfriend at the time was into writing (again, mostly fantasy), and we started exchanging stories for Valentine's Day, anniversary, that sort of thing, but I really struggled with dialogue (like really struggled - which you would not guess now given how 90% of my stuff is dialogue 😅).

So, to help me practice dialogue writing, I turned to fanfic, where I could write around / adapt pre-existing dialogue.

And before you ask, neither of the above works are finished, or currently posted anywhere. I am thinking about picking up The Witcher story (original story with an OC witcher) at some point to complete it and publish it as an actual book, but no concrete timeline for this atm...

Again, in relation to Choices, TRR is so far the only fandom that I've written for because I haven't played another Choices game (yet) that has sucked me in the same way that TRR has. That said, I am planning to maybe do a TRR crossover with Witness (bodyguard Drake *swoon*) and with Shipwrecked (survival-mode Drake on a desert-island, anyone?) once I've played through both stories.

3. What do you think it was about that fandom that pulled you in?

For Dragon Age, it was Alistair - who I have realised is actually very similar to Maxwell from TRR (both in terms of looks and dialogue) 🤣 I mean, tell me I'm wrong:

For The Witcher, it was the world - the fact that it was kind of medieval in time-period and all the lore about herbs, monsters, magic and potions.

Finally, for Choices specifically, it was the desire to fix all the errors in TRR 🤣 But then I also discovered all the amazing fanfic that was on Wattpad and Tumblr, and the great community we have, and I haven't looked back since!

Also, before anyone asks, yes, I am working on the next chapter of Sleepless in New York. No, it's nowhere near to being finished yet. No, I don't have a timeline for posting (I was hoping end of April originally but that very quickly went out the window - life has been getting in the way of writing too much unfortunately...). Yes, I will post a SSS or WW when I am a bit closer to completion. Thanks for bearing with me!

Tagged my permas in case anyone is interested / wants to share as well 🤗

Permatags

@twinkleallnight @lovingchoices14 @kingliam2019 @petiteboheme @queen-arabella-of-cordonia @tessa-liam @alyshak92 @secretaryunpaid @princessleac1 @walkerdrakewalker @tinkie1973 @twinkle-320 @knaussal @nikkis1983 @lunaseasblog @ficloverevie @indiana-jr @differenttyphoonwerewolf @kristinamae093 @eversoaringqueen12 @peonierose @3pawandme @alexabeta @veebug8 @fangirling12566 @queenmiarys @lancelotsimp @coco-lina-s @lolablackwrites @ivyflowers13 @persephone13 @hollygirl1269 @adri-ja-96 @harleybeaumont @katedrakeohd @uneravine @choicesficwriterscreations

30-Day Writing Challenge - Day 1

Please answer in comments or via reblog. For a list of all previously posted questions, click here.

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Mystery Writer (Spencer Reid x Reader)

Summary: Spencer finds books at a second hand bookstore that are annotated and he falls the person writing the notes. 

AN: This was part of a fic swap on @imagining-in-the-margins​ server! This is for the marvellous @definitelynotkatesblog​ <3 I really hope you like it! I had to delete the original post because it didn't show up in the tags. This will be staying up regardless of that now.

Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this?

“If you need anything, just let me know!”

Spencer pressed his lips together at the person behind the till before heading deeper into the rows of second-hand books. Familiar titles, old and new, printed on spines in various states of pristine/decay, they tempted him to select and bring them home with him. The clear sections between biographies and fiction guided him deeper into the forest, deeper into finding his way out. He was hoping to adopt one such book for a day off, when he could revisit it with a fresh eye. It would be like seeing an old friend again, remembering why they were friends in the first place with a hint of that initial read through from years ago, and perhaps he would learn something new in the process.

A dull ache in his chest at the sight of The Sign of Four by Arthur Conan Doyle. But he had long since recovered from that heartbreak and he would be able to read this story without feeling that again.

Still. It had been several years since he read this book.

His nervous fingers plucked it off the shelf and the pages fell open for him. A flattened gum wrapper parted the pages like the Red Sea. Spencer lifted it out tentatively. Its creases were ironed in from its role as a temporary bookmark, an impression of scribbled black ink flattened after it was made.

Spencer’s eyes scanned over the page in search of what this gum wrapper might have been guarding.

“Women are never to be entirely trusted – not the best of them.”

In the margins was scribbled:

Product of the time, but still a prick, rude smartarse role a bit dull

Spencer found himself exhaling in light laughter. That a lack of empathy was considered “dull” by this person, when it was something he dealt with in his job almost every day. The confidence in this commentary too, this brazen critique of a much beloved fictional character was left for someone else to find.

His gaze found Watson’s opinion of Holmes’ casual sexism: “atrocious sentiment”. It was circled twice in the same black biro.

Spencer dug his thumb against the text block and flicked through the book. A waft of that book smell lifted from the paper, accompanied by the bold notes of the previous owner dotted across the text until he finally landed on the reverse of the front cover. Two letters – initials - were scratched onto it.

It was with bridled exhilaration that Spencer approached the till and held up the book with a half-smile. His hands were quick to place it down on the counter so that the shop assistant could type the price into the till. His mood was apparently palpable because they seemed just as happy as Spencer to hand him back the novel in a brown paper bag – the receipt tucked inside.

 --->--->--->--->--->

 “Love is an emotional thing, and whatever emotional is opposed to what is true, cold reason, which I place above all things. I should never marry myself, lest I bias my judgement.”  

What a lonely existence and also a lie. See: entire relationship w/ Dr. Watson!

Spencer smiled at this comment. Now all the other instances of a double underlining made sense. Each one produced itself in his mind as evidence that Mr Sherlock Holmes did in fact love. Maybe not marry, but it would have been terribly unconventional for him to wed Doctor John Watson. The unknown author seemed to understand this. They never emphasised if this love was platonic or romantic. But the way in which they proved love existed within this character oft portrayed as emotionless, Spencer simply adored. They were a romantic reader, who still enjoyed reading about the cynic

He grew quite aware of his posture in that moment and he straightened his back. A few clicks of complaint emitted as he stretched, his head twisting from side to side. Screwing his eyes open and shut behind his glasses, he revisited your deduction.

On the dot of the “i” in “lie”, there was a sprinkle of graphite around the indent from where a pencil’s lead had snapped from the effort put into topping off this point. A sprinkle of graphite smudged where the pages pressed together.

Spencer moved on to where a sentence in black biro tried to blend in with the printed words. A memory appeared at the front of his mind: when Rossi was bewildered to learn Spencer and Dr. Alex Blake wrote the newspaper crossword in pen.

The pencil markings were like mini brainstorms, something to revisit and make a solid theory with the black biro. But the planning was never rubbed out.

Little quotes were circled. This mystery critic spent half the book roasting the characters and the other half leaving little exclamation marks and circles around phrases and words when they couldn’t think of something to say. Spencer found it sweet, picturing the thrilling unfolding of events for the reader to revisit.

His heart ached in bittersweet memory as he recalled the contents of Dr Alex Blake’s book The Route of Linguistics. It was necessary pain to create a profile of who this mystery critic was. Yes, he was profiling out of work hours. His evenings were now spent trying to picture the voice behind the notes. The sarcasm, the witty blows to the character’s and author’s ego. He almost wished that he couldn’t read so fast because he finished the book, even with its additional notations, all too quickly. But there was one bonus.

Spencer traced the pad of his fingertip over the exclamation marks describing Mary Morstan. What else might a detractor of the great Sherlock Holmes read?

--->--->--->--->---> 

He had returned to the bookshop in favour of adopting another. Yet he could not find one that satisfied his unknown criteria. It was not until he found himself checking the front pages of the fifth book he had selected, that he realised he was looking for a pair of initials.

Sighing, he placed My Dear Bessie, with its empty front page, back on the shelf. The chances of finding another book containing this mystery critic were so minute. He could probably calculate them if he wanted to dedicate himself to such a disheartening statistic. He’d rather not spend his lunch break doing that, as much as he loved statistics. This once, they did not assure his safety and he remained unsupported by the fact that he could not find any other Arthur Conan Doyle books.

His desperation became most apparent when he thought that perhaps fate should just decide for him. If anything, he would come away with a random book to read through in about ten minutes on a flight back home.

He peeked around the corner of the shelves. The shop assistant at the till was busy writing something down, not paying any mind to the shop’s only customer.

“A random shot had no better odds than just picking books off one by one” is what he told himself as he closed his eyes and placed his fingers on the end of the shelf, just over the first book’s spine. In an “S” pattern, his arm moved up and down, over the books and shelves and gaps between units. His feet stepped forwards into the space he knew was clear.

Spencer stopped and opened his eyes, his finger shifting just an inch out of the way of his new book’s title.

Circe. Madeline Miller.

He tapped the top and the book fell forwards, where he caught it. Its shining dust jacket was serving its purpose, a few tears along the edges from where it had protected the hardcover. He checked the front page. A map of Aiaia in orange and brown filled it to the corners. On the next page, his heart stuttered at the sight of two initials in the same handwriting and the same biro. There was also a scribble - invisible to start with then a ball of black.

The first page with the story’s text held a scribble just above its opening line:

the power of the name

“When I was born, the name for what I was did not exist.”

He could see that the first was in a blunt pencil, but the addition was a sharpened point carving into the paper. A secondary thought that was provided after completing the novel, they had added it. Spencer lifted it to his face, his eyes crossing to keep the stipple in focus. The scent of the paper and the graphite reached him easily; the note must have been made just before Circe was gifted to him. How lucky he was to find such a treasure.

The shop assistant was cutting out a new sign for “BUY ONE GET ONE HALF PRICE!”. By the time Spencer made it to them, the sign was placed upon the pile besides him. The shop assistant smoothed out a crease on the dust jacket, ineffectively but Spencer admitted the gesture. He was glad that someone who loved books as much as him got to work in a place like this.

--->--->--->--->--->

Spencer’s mind, definitely for worse, echoed the words off the tabloids around his head the split second he made eye contact with the headlines. He paced the shelves to somewhere a little quieter. When he found the chocolate aisle, he pretended to peruse. Ever half a minute or so, his gaze drifted up to the till area where the shop owner was on a phone call and clearly not paying attention to him.

It was not long before Spencer grew bored of looking at KitKats, and he pulled out One Thousand And One Nights. The book’s pages fell again to page 57. This shop’s receipt stood above them, still holding its place from the previous owner. It felt wrong to part the two.

No new people had entered this corner shop for 8 minutes. He’d even given the time at the receipt’s end a fifteen-minute margin either side. Given that this mystery critic took a break from work at the same time on the same day of the week – and that they worked during the day – he should have seen them. Maybe he had, and they were that man in the baggy hoodie who stunk of weed. Probably not. Hopefully not. Not that Spencer was judging him for his… recreational activities. He just wanted the mystery critic to be someone he could realistically spend time with.

Just then, Spencer’s phone trilled annoyingly loud. He received a glare from the shop manager and Spencer sent an awkward apologetic expression his way before answering JJ quickly.

“Spencer, we’ve got a case. We need you here ASAP.”

His response was immediate. “Ok, be there in ten.” Hanging up, Spencer dithered on the spot then grabbed a packet of Cheetos. He’d been there for nearly twenty minutes; he had to get something.

“Three dollars,” the manager said before returning to his call. But not before he rolled his eyes at Spencer. Spencer dropped the bills onto the counter and dashed out before he could be offered a receipt.

--->--->--->--->---> 

  An outlier in the usual length of case work had passed by in five long days. Spencer hardly ever regretted the time he put into this job. Every unsub caught was lives saved. But the absence of his mystery commentator had been niggling at the back of his busy mind and he was glad to finally reunite with them on this long flight back.

From his satchel, he recovered the copy of One Thousand And One Nights and began rereading the notes to ground himself in the story. His focus lingered on the page as if he were reading it at the average 250 words per minute. It allowed him to block out the humming of the engine.

Spencer did not take his eyes off the page as he pulled open his desk drawer and popped a piece of overpriced gum into his mouth. Half-hearted reminders bounced in his head, from when he tried smoking and chewing gum to ease his cravings. The fruit flavour was very clearly artificial and it faded within six minutes. Why his mystery critic would pick such a pathetic packet of gum to chew, he didn’t know. But hopefully the fact of its flavour disappearing fast would mean they get through the packet quicker and buy another soon. Even if today, and the days before, spent in that shop did not lean in favour of that hypothesis.

--->--->--->--->--->

The Five People You Meet In Heaven was in the Recently Donated pile. It was near the top, slid towards the edge of the container after being placed wonkily on a copy of some sports autobiography.

Within the pages was more than Spencer could have ever hoped for. Entire paragraphs were circled, quotes underlined. A squashed mini post-it note tabbed the page and a whole paragraph was scrawled on it, about Tala. An arrow pointing to the underside, Spencer lifted the flap and saw more to read, like an interactive pop-up book that he’d gotten Henry for his second birthday. Spencer closed his eyes quick and snapped the book shut. He wanted to save it for when he was sitting comfortably, not while he was rushing back to work in time for JJ to get to her lunch break on time.

The shop assistant had just clipped the lid back onto a green highlighter when Spencer drew up to their counter. With careful fingers, he placed the book upon it. There was a twitch of the assistant’s mouth; their eyes brightened. They looked like they wanted to say something, but something else held them back from making the first move. Spencer recognised it from his school days.

“It’s a good read.” He spoke after they had typed the price into the till.

“I know,” The assistant replied instantly, a relieved smile on their lips, “What part are you on?”

“I’ve already read it, but I wanted to revisit the passage at the diner.”

“Ahh, that’s a good bit. One of my favourites.”

Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed a fraction of an inch. His gaze dropped to the nametag on the left side of their chest. Y/N, their name’s first initial. It couldn’t be.

“What did you think about the final person, Tala?”

“Oh,” The shop assistant clutched at their heart, “I was an emotional wreck before and it hit me hard just as the rest did. So bittersweet to hear her forgiveness. It took me a few times to finish reading the end, but it was all worth it.”

He couldn’t be this lucky, to get this many books from the same person and to have them standing in front of him. Spencer didn’t believe in luck.

As he reached across for his new book, he turned over the cover, “Was this yours?”

Twisting their head around to read the publication details, the assistant – Y/N - smiled sheepishly at the initials. “Yes, and I’m glad to see it go to a new home.”

Apparently luck believed in him.

“But,” Spencer felt his brows knit automatically as he looked between the book and their previous owner, “You love it. I-I’ve seen your notes.”

A hand clapped over Y/N’s mouth, “Oh God, you must have. I mean, it wasn’t the intention initially, but I thought they might be a little entertaining for anyone who picks it up to leave them in there.”

“Oh, they were! I’d love to read more of your thoughts. Hear, hear them, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Y/N checked the door to the shop, still shut, and back to Spencer. They dropped their elbows onto the countertop with their chin in their palms. “What did you wanna know?”

From his bag, Spencer procured his – their – copy of The Sign of Four and flicked through the pages. So many places to choose, but he wanted to open with what had introduced him to Y/N’s analysis.

The pair put their heads together, leaning on the counter. Spencer could smell the chewing gum on their breath. Y/N never cut him off, and he never wanted to cut them off. There were little pauses at the end of each of their turns to speak before the other picked up where they had left off. Their voices leapt from secretive whispers to passionate orations of their favourite passages, rebounding evidence and analysis off each other like a bouncy ball. Spencer finally had a voice to put to the sarcasm, the one his mind had conjured long forgotten in the wake of Y/N’s enthusiasm.

The shop’s door swung open. Spencer leapt to attention as an older woman swept in, past the two of them towards the non-fiction section. Y/N adjusted their name tag, their back straight too. The clock behind the till announced that it was now twenty minutes after the end of Spencer’s lunch break.

Running on the rush of his hobby meeting a potential friend, Spencer asked, “Can I get your number? So we can talk more, maybe swap some more books, when you’re not working?”

His luck was still by his side as Y/N wrote out their number on his receipt, written in their infamous black biro.

--->--->--->--->---> 

  Spencer leapt over to the door of his apartment, took a deep breath, and unlocked it. Stood behind where it had been was Y/N and they too were still wearing the uniform from work. Their nametag was still on their polo shirt, the same spot that Spencer wore his FBI tag.

“Can I get you a drink?” He asked the second they made a step inside his abode.

“Tea would be great. Milk and one sugar please.”

And while he was in the kitchen, Y/N rushed over to the bookshelves, their eyes wide to take in Spencer’s collection. “Oh wow! You weren’t joking!” Their finger indicated to a hard cover copy of Mean Time by Carol Ann Duffy, “That’s one of mine. Well, yours now.”

Plucking it from the shelf, they opened it up. Spencer had written his initials beside theirs.

Spencer stuck his head out in the partition, “Ours. If we’re going to be sharing.” Y/N stood on tiptoes, teeming with delight, their hands cradling the book with all the care Spencer could hope for in a fellow reader. Joint custody of their books and their passion? What a dream.

“I just have to write a little more about the epilogue, and I’ll be with you,” Y/N took their place on his couch. A pencil began scribbling away their thoughts onto the last few pages. Their knees were their desk.

Spencer finished brewing and placed the mug in front of Y/N, who mumbled a quick thank you to him. He joined them in writing his final notes. It slowed him down a considerable amount, but he was glad to take things at a casual pace, especially considering the way that Y/N almost broke their pencil as they scrawled out their thoughts for Spencer to hear later.

“Have you thought about the next one you’d like to try?” Spencer asked tentatively. He wasn’t so sure if Y/N would want to be interrupted.

Luckily for him, Y/N paused their stream of consciousness to look back at his books, “Hmm. So much to choose from.”

Stood up, their book left in Spencer’s care. They took a deep breath, closed their eyes and used their forefinger to draw a zigzag over the spines. Spencer felt that he was almost sick with joy.

Y/N stilled their wandering hand and opened their eyes, already drawing out the selected novel, “This one.”

“And what have you chosen for me next time?”

Y/N handed over The Butterfly Lion from their bag, “Ok, I can’t wait any longer, what do you think?”

They sat back on the couch. Their legs now hung over the arm of the couch, elbows either side and face cupped in their palms. The book rested in their lap. Shifting so that he faced them completely, Spencer returned to the first page and his analysis began.

[help-im-a-gay-fish]

Okay I had to do some stuff, but here I am rambling about relationship between Killer and Nightmare in Colours of LOVE.

Some of this I might mention before some of it might be your and Jann or Yuri ideas... Anyway!! The way I see that:

Even though this is soulmate au Nightmare and Killer aren't perfect fit for eachother. They are perfect fit in threesome - Ccino softens rough edges of both of them, and changes their attention from being mad on eachother to carrying about Ccino together (especially at first when he is really depressed). But before that... It was hard.

Killer is really open about everything he thinks and feels. If he founds someone who is attractive he will flirt. Even when he is already dating Nightmare. And also he always shows his affection to Nightmare everywhere, in public too. That's cute and sweet, but Nightmare is really closed person so that makes him really uncomfortable. Night often got jealous with Killer flirting with anyone else, got embarrassed with his kisses and all on public, and in general is a bit annoyed with Killer's actions. Killer on the other hand doesn't really understand why Nightmare is so "tensed" (he is not, Night is just much more calm, but Killer don't get it).

They were braking up and coming back again a few times, because they had argued a lot about everything and got tired of this. Right now they are on their "best days" - they started to date again a few weeks ago and right now they are through some stuff, they understand eachother better, and pretty chill about eachother weird actions. Like in the second page Night is a bit flustered by Killer's kiss but he almost used to that. Same as he is worried about being late, since Killer is almost always late, but he is more or less fine by that. On next page (which you haven't seen yet), there are an interesting dialog between them, and I will definitely write some of "subtext" about it when I will post it.

Actually if they haven't met Ccino they would break up again after a few months. And maybe come back again after a week.

Also! Interesting thing about third soulmate: at the beginning of the comic (before Nigh met Ccino) Killer is 100% sure that they have third soulmate, but Nightmare is sure for about 60%. Killer is existed about that, he knew knew that he is polyamorious for a long time, but Nightmare hesitates a lot, because he can't really imagine himself in polyam relationship. It feels weird and also he is soooooo jealous about Killer paying any attention to anyone except him, that he worries to become "third wheel". Will it be different with Ccino?? Who knows (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.)

Hi kotikaleo!!! This was super fun to read.

Firstly I'm going to tag @zu-is-here since she started the studio verse

It's definitely an interesting insight to your comic and the characters!

It reminds me a lot of an early version of my own ideas about the studio verse nightkiller relationship! And I can definitely see the way we have bounced headcannons of each other paying off.

Them still dealing with a softer kind of lovehate dynamic is an interesting one. It doesn't seem to be as extreme as my version, but it's interesting that it's still there.

The fact that they are meant to work as a 3 makes sense as well. If they are supposed to be bounded as a 3 it makes sense that three they their relationship would be unstable. They don't work as a two, but they are soul mates and something would always pull the two of them together.

I'm also curious, since Nightmare isn't 100% sure that the lack of colour is due to them being soul mated to another person. I wonder if he ever felt like the universe got it wrong? And that he'd been mated to the wrong person? Or perhaps he felt it meant that him and Killer don't have soul mates and that's why they have some connections.

It sad boy.

Also if Killer knows he's poly by nature, is that something that causes disagreements with the 2 of them?

And now for mine and @jann-the-bean version.

This story has been something that we mostly developed in tumbler DMs but both me and Jan wrote a story about it. Jan wrote

KillerNight(s)

And I'm writing

Round and round till we all fall down

Nightmare and Killer's relationship started off baddddd, it basically started as a mutual dislike for one another. This is due to their conflicting personalities and morals.

Nightmare was originally quite excited to meet Killer, as he'd heard a lot about the actor. But almost straight away he found Killer to be rude, childish and irritating. Killer found Nightmare to be stuck up, snobbish and entitled.

The two first met at an awards ceremony and got into a yelling match after a few drinks and were separated. From there their dislike for one another was made quite well known to the public because of a social media battle back and forth.

This only went on for a few months however, as the characters of 'Killer' and 'Nightmare' were cast to play together.

Nightmare and Killer agreed to be civil in order to function while working and get the filming completed as soon as possible.

As they worked together, their dislike turned into a playful banter and respect for one another. And then something else shifted.

Now Killer has a reputation for being a player and one who likes to sleep around, as you said, he's open about his interest in people when he has it and enjoys casually flirting with just about anyone.

Which came to include Nightmare.

Nightmare paid no mind to it really, though he couldn't understand why it embarrassed him so much.

Killer comes to find Nightmare to be very attractive and enjoys his reactions when teased, he rights him off though because he was under the impression that Nightmare was straight, and he'd never try to change that.

It was a day when they were talking about Killer's eyes and how it's caused him to struggle, that Nightmare tells him that he thinks his eyes are very pretty and that they are an attractive quality, and something in Killer breaks and he kisses him.

So Killer feels like he messed up and the two avoid each other. But it causes Nightmare to start questioning things about himself.

Nightmare at this point had only every dated women. He assumed that he was straight. But after that kiss a lot of buried feelings are dragged to the surface and exposed, and he realises that he's also attracted to men.

So Jan goes into full details about this, in the fic Killernights, but basically Nightmare confronts Killer about the kiss and Killer tells him he 'has a thing for him'

The two go back to Killer's flat to talk, but their normal banter, leads to flirting and then another kiss. And Nightmare who is curious and suddenly craving new sensations becomes lost to him. Killer who finds Nightmare physically very attractive, also gets wrapped up and the two of them sleep together.

Nowwww this is getting long so I'll try to shorten it down a bit.

Basically, it's an amazing night. It's passionate, enjoyable and a lot of fun for both of them. Upon finding out Night has never been with a man, Killer guides him carefully though the process.

After that night the two can't stop thinking about each other, even though they both planned for it to be a one time thing. Again, they avoided each other until talking after a while.

And killer admits his desires for the other, and offers Nightmare a safe environment to experiment with his sexuality, where he won't be judged.

To cut a long story short, this spirals into a passionate and carnal, on and off booty call/fling with each other that spans for years.

Other that time they grow very close with each other, and come to recognise the similarities that they share, and have soft moments of just enjoying being together with one another.

For Killer, Nightmare is the first person to ever tell him he had beautiful eyes and mean it. The first person who wasn't at all put off by them.

To Nightmare, it feels like Killer is the one person that will never pick Dream over him. And he makes him feel wanted and desirable in a way few have before.

However, their are still parts of their relationship that conflict. Of course a healthy relationship will always have some conflicts. But for Killer and Nightmare the conflicts clash and fight with each other.

That along with both of their past traumas, (I wrote about Killer's back story here) means they find it difficult to talk about genuine feelings and what's bothering them. Causing things to bottle up and blow up over time.

They also find it impossible to admit that they actually love each other deeply.

They tried to be in a full on committed relationship once, (which I'm writing about in Round and Round) but it didn't work out for these issues. As well as the fact that Killer is poly by nature, and therefore gets anxious and uncomfortable in a relationship with one person only. Which he won't talk to Night about for the reasons stated above.

Enter Ccino.

Now Ccino is the missing piece for Nightmare and Killer.

He's soft and gentle spoken, which easily helps them calm down when things get heated between them. He also provides a safe and loving space to open up about what things are bothering them.

Nightmare and Killer's also, as you said, spend more energy caring for and sometimes worrying about Ccino, so they have less energy for the constant fighting.

Ccino was the missing piece. He's the person who will cuddle and read books with nightmare, but also the one who's super into affection, which Killer loveesss.

A relationship would never work between just killer and Ccino, since Ccino wouldn't be able to keep up with Killer's libido and killer doesn't know much about Ccino's mental health. And Ccino wouldn't work in a relationship with just Nightmare because Night's colder and more straight forward personality would leave him affection staved after a while.

They just work together! They are basically soul mates in this universe as well!

P. S Nightmare in this universe was also very veryyyyy jealous when Killer showed interest in Ccino. Which is something he took out on Ccino till Killer stopped it. After falling in love with Marshmallow he regrets this a lot.

I'M SO EXCITED FOR MORE. COLOURS OF LOVEEEEE

[kayleighhalliday2203]

Hey guys....

So I know I haven't been active much recently. I am getting over a depressive episode that coupled with a huge increase with my social anxiety.

Throw in a dose of writer's block and it's just been hell.

Today I wrote something. Not for one of my fan fics, but for my next original story. I'm going to post it below for you to enjoy.

Writing prompt: A conversation your character needs to have.

Tag whirled around and Cynthia immediately felt her wolf take a step back. His eyes flashed with rage, clearly she had touched a very raw nerve.

“Now listen here, you little brat,” he snarled, his deep voice ragged and his fists clenched. Cynthia opened her mouth to speak.

“No, for once you’re going to listen and keep your tongue still,” he stepped closer, “When Rex said you don’t know anything about our world, I didn’t realise how much he was downplaying it. So let me give you a little friendly advice.”

Cynthia backed up as he moved towards her, hitting the wall behind her with a thump. Tag didn’t stop, his eyes fixed on her, like a predator watching its prey, like a wolf.

He finally stopped mere inches from her.

She glanced towards the door for a second, wondering if she could reach it before he could react. Too late did she realise that he had seen her. One arm, thick with corded muscle, raised, his hand slamming against the wall beside her head, cutting her off. The other did the same on her other side.

Cynthia glanced from side to side before slowly raising her eyes back up to his. She expected to see his usual cold, indifferent stare, but instead there was something else. Something she couldn’t quite put a name to.

There was a softness she had never seen directed at her before, one she had only seen reserved for the pups of the pack and the ones he was closest to.

“I am not your father,” he said, the harsh edge of his voice gone, “I am not your brother, your uncle, your cousin. You cannot push me the way you push them. It is dangerous for an unmated wolf to do so, especially with another.”

“But Marcus…”

“Marcus has coddled you from the moment you arrived,” Tag cut her off, “And with good reason. You are an unmated Alpha-line female, who is new to the pack, and to this kind of life. But it has left you more vulnerable than you realise.”

He lowered his arms and took a step back.

“Even just a few decades ago, this would not have ended well for you,” he said, “In fact it would have ended the day you followed me.”

“What…”

“It would have ended with you either dead, or pinned beneath me as I…” he stopped, lowering his head and taking a deep breath,

“As you what?” Cynthia asked, despite her gut telling her she didn’t want to know the answer.

Tag looked up and let out a breath he had been holding.

“I wouldn’t have been gentle, it would hurt a lot, and I wouldn’t stop,” he growled, his eyes growing dark, “Not until I was sure you were carrying my pups.”

Cynthia’s head hit the wall as she realised what he was trying to say.

“Welcome to the reality of Lycan life,” he said, a vaguely sinister smile on his face, “Where headstrong females got murdered or raped until just a few years ago.”

“You...you wouldn’t…”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t,” he said softly, lifting a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, “But only because Marcus has dragged us out of the Dark Ages. We work so hard to pull ourselves out of that mindset, to fight the wolf’s instincts to take a mate by any means. You have no idea how much work you almost unravelled.”

His calloused fingers trailed down her jaw to her neck before he sharply pulled away, breathing deeply.

“Please,” he said, the first time she had ever heard him utter the word, “Don’t follow me if you’re not prepared to accept the consequences.”

She looked him in the eye. The softness was still there, pleading with her not to unravel all the work he had done to be better, to leave the savagery of his inner wolf where it belonged, to find the balance.

She thought back on all she had seen of him with others. Kind, caring, endless patience for the pups that dogged him every day, a worthy leader to take over from her uncle someday. He deserved it, she felt, he had everything that an Alpha needed, except for one. A tie to the pack.

Briefly her mind strayed to Dorian. Sure he was charming and competent, but her mind never looked at him and said Alpha. But Tag. Tag had everything the pack needed, and she had the one thing he needed.

She lifted her hand and touched his neck. She saw his nostrils flare briefly and his eyes closed.

“Don’t,” he said, “Please, don’t do this if…you’re going into heat...I won’t be able to...I can’t…”

“Tag, I’m sorry,” she said, “For everything I’ve done. I didn’t realise. But I know one thing about Lycans and this pack. You are the best thing for them, you would make the best Alpha.”

“I have no tie to the pack,” he said, his eyes opening, “They would never accept me. Dorian…”

“Dorian would never be as good an Alpha as you,” she replied, “Marcus said that a true Alpha puts the pack first, makes sure they have what they need, right?”

“Yes,” he answered, watching her carefully as his hand lifted to touch her elbow.

“Both the Alpha male…” she hesitated for just a moment, “And the Alpha female.”

“What are you saying?” he asked.

“I know that you need a tie to the pack,” she replied, “And the pack needs you as it’s next Alpha. I can help make that decision.”

“I’ll be no good for you,” Tag growled.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, “You want me to be a better Lycan? The pack comes first.”

[oddshelbyout]

Flowers & Chocolates // John Shelby X Fem!Reader

Summary: On Valentine’s Day, your neighbour John asks you to look after his kids for a few hours and comes back with a gift you had been waiting for.

Warnings: Swearing

Word Count: 2372

Author’s Note:

This is a modern au, my first one for Peaky Blinders. I wasn’t sure if I could write a modern fic for this well but I think this turned out to be pretty good. I had to give John’s kids names and it was really hard to decide, I hope they fit well.

This fic really made me get over my writer’s block. I wrote this in one sit and it just put my mood up so much. It’s really fluffy and exactly what I would want my Valentine’s Day to be like.

I hope you share Valentine’s Day with all of your loved ones and show them you appreciate their love. I also hope that this one shot makes you as happy as it made me while writing it. Enjoy <3

English is not my first language and I’m not always confident about my work so please let me know if I make any mistakes or anything I can fix in my writing.

You can ask to be added to my taglist. You can be tagged to works on a specific character or just any of my works. Please dm me or send your wish to my ask box if you’d like to be added.

Requests are open. You can request any Peaky Blinders related imagines or prompts for me to write. I’m a minor so I don’t take NSFW requests, please keep that in mind.

———————

It was Valentine’s Day. You were single once again and your date for the night was a bottle of cheap red wine.

None of your relationships lasted more than 6 months and you had been spending every Valentine’s Day alone for 3 years. You were convinced the relationship chapter of your life was closed for now.

That morning started like another Sunday morning. You got up, took a shower, made yourself coffee and called it breakfast. You scrolled through Instagram and pretended not to see all the couple posts.

You were actually really glad to be single. You had full freedom, not that a relationship would take it all away but being independant entirely made you feel good. Also all of your past relationships felt one sided and you hadn’t met the right person yet.

This Valentine’s Day was a bit different than the others because you weren’t upset about being single. You were actually upset about not being in a relationship with a specific someone.

That someone was your upstairs neighbour in the small apartment complex you lived in. His name was John and he had four kids. Yes, four kids.

You might ask why that information was so important and the answer is simple. You and John met just because he had kids.

All of the flats besides yours and John’s were rented by university students, that left you as the only choice to babysit John’s kids. You were working independently, you were a graphic artist and you were always at home. That was exactly what John needed.

One summer afternoon, your door knocked. You weren’t expected guests, you barely had them anyway. John stood before you, looked at you with his gentle eyes.

“I have no one, can you watch my kids for an hour?” was the first thing he had said to you. You were also too busy trying to understand who he was and didn’t notice four youngers hiding behind him.

You couldn’t say no. You loved children, you had two younger brothers but they were back in your hometown when you had moved to London. John just left you with the kids and left.

John had two daughters and two sons. Katie, Jocelyn, William and David. Katie was the oldest but definitely wasn’t the most mature one. Jocelyn and William were twins but looked nothing alike though they sounded a lot like each other. David was the youngest and somehow the most mature one.

The oldest was nine and the youngest one was six at the time you met them. They were extremely calm and none of them were troublemakers. They had great interest in your work and asked a lot of questions but also never bothered you.

You loved spending time with them and babysitting them. It has become a routine for you. John would drop them at least a few times a week. It was summer and the kids didn’t go to school. They were with you almost everyday.

You spent so much time with his kids that one day you even joked about getting paid. John had a better offer though. He promised you that he and the kids would make or buy you dinner every weekend to pay you back.

John was a good cook, you had only had take out for one of those dinners once and that was because he was sick. You had become almost like a family.

John was originally from Birmingham, his accent gave it away anyway but he had moved to London with a quick decision after his wife passed away. He had left his brothers and aunt behind in Birmingham but promised them that they’ll be okay.

John had told you that moving to London was the best decision he had taken. It was a new beginning for him and the kids. He was an engineer and London had more opportunities.

Even though you worked from home and didn’t quite reach the goals you had coming to London but it was your best decision too. Best decision after dumping your toxic ex.

Luckily for both you and John, you had formed a great friendship. The kids adored you. John was forever thankful for taking care of them.

That was all going to start changing when schools started and you saw them less and less. You were starting to feel like you didn’t appreciate your time with them enough.

You also realised you had feelings for John. That hurt more when one morning as the kids and him leaving home told you that they were moving. They were going to move out of their flat to a bigger place.

Your heart broke. You knew you’d see them from time to time but you thought it would never be the same warmth you had as neighbours.

That little heartache made Valentine’s Day harder. You could’ve opened your heart out to John and his little family you were introduced to. You had even joined that little family. Shared everything and became so close that you felt like you joined their family

After your coffee and your usual morning Instagram scrolling, you opened your laptop. You had to finish one job before the deadline. Your doorbell rang while you were deep down in work.

You went to the door knowing it was John. You hoped he would be alone. He was not, he had brought the kids again. You were happy to see them but you had one last hope to spend Valentine’s Day with John.

“Sorry Y/N, can you look after them for a few hours?” John said looking at you with puppy eyes. It almost felt like he was apologising for something and it wasn’t for making you look after his children.

“Sure!” you had said, trying to hide the subtle pain in your chest. “I downloaded a new game!” David said, waving his iPad carefully. You smiled You looked back to John, your smile had faded but his was as strong as it was a moment before.

You were hurting because him dropping them off on Valentine's Day meant only one thing. He was going on a date. He didn’t have a partner that you knew of and knew he would tell you if he did. It hurt you so much

“Going on a date?” you asked not being able to hold your curiosity back. “Oh no, just an errand.” John said and you just nodded.

You tried to reply back with a smile but it looked more like you were trying to hide your pain. “Alright, get in kids.” you told the children and John nodded.

“Alright Shelby Clan, I’ll be back in an hour.” John said and that made you genuinely smile. You found it very funny that he called them Shelby Clan. You knew it was the nickname for the whole family but it was still funny hearing him call four kids a clan.

“Bye daddy!” Jocelyn said waving, then they all got in. They ran to the living room which was also your office. “Y/N, are you really working on Valentine’s Day?” Katie asked. You chuckled nervously.

“Well, I’m not dating anyone, so yes.” you admitted and the kids giggled. “What are you laughing at?” you joked and they giggled more. “Would you want to date?” William asked.

“I think I would, if there was a right person.” you said after sitting on your chair. The kids sat on the ground and rested their backs on the side of the couch. David climbed on the couch instead, told you he was more mature.

“Even I am dating someone.” Katie said and Jocelyn gasped. “Who’s the lucky fella?” you asked, raising your eyebrows. All of them kept giggling, “He’s in my class, he bought me a cookie on friday.” Katie said with a big smile.

Watching them giggle and talk to you enthusiastically made your mood go up. You were actually feeling much better thanks to the Shelby Clan.

You went back to work while they were entertaining themselves with the new game David downloaded. The other siblings joined David on the couch too, lşke they should’ve done earlier.

You weren’t close to finishing the work and you were getting stressed about it. Your back started hurting from sitting. Also your stomach growled, reminding you that coffee doesn’t count as a meal.

“Are y’all hungry?” you asked the kids, hoping they would say yes. “Nope.” they all answered at once but Katie had more to say. “Dad said they’ll be cooking for us when he gets back.” they all nodded to Katie’s work.

“I’m eating on my own then.” you mumbled and stood up. “No Y/N, daddy’s cooking for you too.” William said and you smiled for a moment.

Your mind went full on panic mode. You questioned why he would cook for you after he comes back from a date. Even though he had said it wasn’t a date, your conscience didn’t trust his words.

You sat back at your seat but you didn’t want to keep working. The kids seemed so into that game that you also didn’t want to interrupt their fun. You went back to scrolling through Instagram and accepting your loneliness.

Soon the doorbell came to the rescue. You didn’t notice how much time passed so you didn’t think it would be John. You still believed he was on a date.

You opened the door. Your gaze first focused on John’s big smile, you didn’t even notice what he was holding in his hands.

“I’m back.” he said quietly, he was so quiet that you knew for some reason that he didn’t want kids to hear. That was when your gaze fell down from his lips to his hands.

He was holding a box of chocolate and a bouquet of red roses. You gasped and then smiled so big. “You bought me flowers and chocolates.” you said after licking your lips.

“I thought it was the appropriate time to.” John said, you looked at him not getting exactly what he was trying to say. You were so clueless.

“Appropriate time for what?” you asked and he just laughed. He thought you were joking but you were asking seriously. The fact that the corner of your lips were still curled had tricked him.

“I thought you were smarter.” he joked instead of directly answering your question. “Shut up you wanker, tell me!” you laughed after. “Wanker huh? I’m never telling you.” he replied and laughed so hard that you were sure the kids had heard already.

“Come on John Boy!” you said reaching for his hand. “At least give me the chocolates, I’m hungry!” you complained. He pulled them away from you. You laughed at each other, you felt like you were a teenager again.

“No seriously tell me, appropriate time for what?” you asked again, this time with a more serious face. He took a deep breath. He held onto the flowers and chocolates stronger.

“I think this is the appropriate time to ask you out.” John said and you nervously chuckled. You were so happy to hear that your feelings were mutual. You were also angry at yourself for not believing him when he said he had a date.

You two just smiled at each other like idiots without saying anything. At that moment nothing was real, you felt like you were floating in space and your only connection to earth was John.

“You’re asking me out?” you asked just to be sure. “Mhmm.” John nodded, “Y/N Y/L/N would you like to go out with me?” he properly asked. You giggled like a little girl.

“Yes, I will.” you said and hugged him. The corners of the chocolate box hurt you but it was worth it. Your hug was interrupted by Katie.

“Did you ask her out Daddy?” the ten year old asked, he nodded. “He did and now I’m hoping he’s gonna cook us dinner.” you told Katie, you really were hungry like a wolf.

John stepped inside with you. He left the flowers and chocolates on the kitchen counter. He immediately started cooking, you of course were going to help him.

“I hope you’re moving too far away, like the other side of London.” you confessed, that was a concern for you even before his interest in you was official.

“No, just a block away so the kids don’t have to change schools.” John said as he was cutting tomatoes. “A bigger place?” you asked, you were trying to get your own mind to justify the reason they’re moving for.

“Yes and you’re always welcome, nothing changes.” John said, he turned to you and smiled big. You returned his smile with a bigger one. Your eyes stuck at his lips, they looked so full and red. So kissable.

“Nothing changes.” you repeated and took a deep breath. He stopped cutting the tomatoes. He licked his lips, “Maybe some things can change.” he said and kissed you.

What a kiss it was. You weren’t in the children’s sight. It was the best kiss you ever had. With his lips touching yours and his tongue slipping into your mouth, both of you lost contact to earth. You were both floating in space, you didn’t even need air. As long as you had each other, you didn’t even have to have contact to earth.

You kissed for so long. You kissed like it was your last moment alive. You kissed with so much passion and you thought the heartache waiting for him gave you was totally worth it. When you finally parted, the only reason was that you were out of breath and you had a meal to cook.

Your Valentine’s Day was the exact opposite of what you expected. Even though you wouldn’t call what you and John had a relationship yet, you still weren’t alone on Valentine’s Day.

You had John with you who finally told you he wanted to date you. You had Katie, Jocelyn, William and David. You had your little new family. Now you were sure that you had joined their family for real. You hoped you all would be happy for the rest of your lives.

[yeojaa]

so maybe another devil in a new suit drabble 👉👈 maybe jk meeting oc parents or like more interactions w oc and jks parents/sister

[ read devil in a new suit ]

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.  rating.  pg-13.  tags.  mentions of coconut!kook dancing (and the whole reason i wrote this tbh), cute banter, idk.  just a lotta fluff, a lil bit of grinding, y’know.  wc. 2.7k.  beta reader.  none other than @hobi-gif.  i love you always!  author note.  oh look...  it’s me...  posting something...  after sixteen hundred years.  womp womp.  this truthfully didn’t go the way i planned it to but i hope you enjoy regardless!

It really shouldn’t surprise you.  Frankly, it doesn’t.  

But it is a little funny.

There are about six girls gathered in a gaggle around your boyfriend, all desperately vying for his attention as he presents a neatly gathered bouquet to his little sister.  Jisoo’s all smiles, completely over the moon with pride and riding that high as she rightfully should.  (She’d done incredibly well, closed out the showcase with a fluidity you could never even dream of.)  She doesn’t even notice her friends staring at her brother with hearts in their eyes, each one red in the face and not from exertion.

(That, or she doesn’t care.  Maybe she’s grown used to it - the whole having-a-heartthrob-for-a-brother thing.) 

It’s actually quite cute, if only because you know Jungkook doesn’t have eyes for anyone but you.  Can feel it in how he keeps bouncing his gaze back towards you, dimple winking from deep within his cheek each time your eyes meet.  He’s like a child going back to his favourite toy, momentarily distracted by tittering laughter and his sister’s sunny smile but always coming back to you.  The knowledge warms you from the inside out, drags a satisfied smile across your lips.

You wonder whether he notices the attention or if it’s just another part of his life.  (You think he must know.  These college students don’t really hide it well, too handsy for their own good, years of growing up in semi-close proximity instilling a certain confidence in their motions.  That, and because Jungkook is quite possibly the least intimidating person you’ve ever met.)

“Thank you for coming!”  It’s Jisoo, flushed and excitable, round eyes as bright as her brother’s as she crosses to you.  This had been her moment - her time to shine - but you appreciate the effort she makes to include you, finding you within the crowd.  “I was a little nervous but…”  A shrug rolls her narrow shoulders, shakes her dark hair from its loose coil.  

You’d seen her practice before this - watched the long videos she’d regularly send to Jungkook - but seeing her in real life motion was an entire league of its own.  Dancing was her calling, every bit of her made for it.  There was just something lyrical about the way she moved, how her hips rolled, limbs seemingly guided by the rhythm of the music.  A grace you’ve never had, even on your best day.

“You shouldn’t have been.”  You’re beaming right back at her, sisterly reassurance on your tongue.  “You were amazing.” 

Whether she believes you or not - you think she does by how her cheeks grow ten sizes and her eyes are all but swallowed whole by the expression - she’s gracious, accepting the compliment with her blinding smile.  (She really was like Jungkook like that.)  

“You guys should come to a class one day.”  By that, she means a class she helps teach every once in a while.  You’ve heard about it on more than one occasion, seen the choreography posted on Instagram and YouTube.  

Still, you don’t expect that, brows shooting high.  Laughter filters past your teeth, springing off your tongue.  “I am not a dancer and I doubt your brother—”

Now it’s Jisoo’s turn to wear surprise like a neon sign, expression splitting with giggles of her own.  “Wait— have you not seen Kook dance?”  The way she says it is incredulous, Bambi eyes sparkling with what looks like mischief.

“No?”

“Your sister told me something.”

You’ve never seen this particular brand of worry on his face, eyes even more comically wide than usual, whatever words he’d originally meant to speak dying on his tongue.  He looks like a literal deer caught in the headlights, one of his nicknames suddenly very apt.

“What did she say?  She likes to embarrass me.”  True.  Jisoo and Jungkook had a textbook sibling relationship, full of teasing and mockery and copious amounts of love.  “Whatever she said, don’t believe—”

“She said you used to dance.”

“Oh.”  Oh?  You hadn’t expected Jungkook to deflate so easily, relief flooding his features.  “Yeah, I did.  In university.”  He’s utterly unbothered by this knowledge, attention back on the soondubu jjigae he’d been shovelling into his mouth.  “I had some friends who were dancers, so it was good exercise.”

“I want to see.”  

His answer is immediate, despite the heaping bite of rice and stew in his mouth.  “No.”

You whack him across the shoulder, startling him into clattering his spoon on the countertop.  It leaves a messy red streak across marble but you’re dragging his attention back to you with a firm glare, fingers cradled under his jaw.  “I want to see.”

Talent apparently runs in the family, you realise halfway through the third video.  Jungkook moves with the same assured movements his sister does, with power and grace and a confidence that frankly baffles you.  He treats the practice room like a stage, running through the motions so fluidly you almost have trouble believing it’s your man on the screen.  (Not that he’s particularly ungraceful.  It’s just surprising, like watching a dog walk on its hind legs.)

“So, what happened?”  You say it so conversationally, innocently, with eyes that mimic his own.  From the corner of your periphery, your boyfriend shifts, hand flexing over your knee.  There’s the furrow between his brows, the subtle tension in his jaw.  Worry.

“What do you mean?”  

Your own hand waves toward the screen, where the image of Jungkook from over half a decade ago sits paused.  “You were so…”  You’re not sure what you mean.  There are just so many options to describe the literal baby boy on the television.  Young?  Confident?  Round?  (You can’t get over his haircut, though you suppose you can’t hold it against him.) 

Jungkook simply stares at you, waiting for you to find whatever words you want to use.  Despite the uncertainty that swims somewhere in the depths of his eyes, he’s endlessly patient.  Always so soft when it comes to you.

“You had a coconut head.”

Laughter explodes off his tongue, entire face screwing up with amusement.  “Are you serious?”

“You did!”  Admittedly, the cut had somehow worked on him but it’s so reminiscent of grade school haircuts you can’t help but focus on it, too distracted by the glossy sheen to offer much else.  “I guess I get it, though.”

“What do you mean?  Everyone had that haircut—”

“In first grade, maybe.”  He sticks his tongue out at you then;  you scowl in response. 

“What do you get?”  As always, he’s perceptive, immediately aware of your carefully knit brow, the thoughtfulness that fits itself around your teeth like gleaming white veneers and holds his attention hostage.  He’s grown used to it over the months you’ve been together - knows you cling tight to things with an iron grip, turn them over and over until you’ve made sense of it in that brain of yours. 

“The crushes.”  You look affronted, almost appalled at the realisation.  He bursts out laughing, broad palm coming down upon your bare leg in a smack.  (He apologises profusely when you complain.)

“What’re you talking about?”

Your nose is wrinkled, velvet strands dislodged by the shake of your head.  “All your sister’s friends.  They’re in love with you.”  Jisoo had even agreed, laughed about it when you’d commented on it at the recital.  Something about them having grown up with Jungkook, obsessed with the image they’d retained of him since university.  “But you were a coconut.  You wore Timberlands and drop-crotch pants.  You weren’t even that cute.”  An exaggerated shudder slips over your shoulders.  

“I was nineteen.”  As if that makes it better.  Your judgment doesn’t lessen, the lines running the bridge of your nose only deepening.  

“Still.  Embarrassing.”

Your boyfriend truly is the best sport, rolling his eyes at you in the same instance he reaches for you, tugs you closer with broad palms, affection searing into your skin.  “Well, luckily, no more Timbs.  No more bowl cut.”  He nuzzles into the warmth of your neck, spreads your knees wide over his hips.  The sound of his laughter melts into your throat, dresses it in heat deposited by your breath.  “Are you jealous again?”

He doesn’t even get a verbal response to that.  Just a heavy glare and two hands squishing his cheeks.  “Absolutely not.” 

It comes up again in bed, your head on his chest, his hands on your hips.  He asks it quietly, conversationally, with a twinkle in his eye that makes you want to smother him with one of his many pillows. 

“You’re sure you’re not jealous?”

“I’m not,”  you grit, paired with a roll of your eyes and a little snort from your nose.  You really aren’t.  Those girls are inconsequential, irrelevant.  They’ll never amount to what you are to him and that’s just a simple fact.  He’s yours - something he reminds you of day in and day out, both verbally and in action. 

(You love him for it, appreciate it more than you can possibly begin to explain.  There’s a certain bliss to be found in the knowledge that you’re loved.  A warmth that rivals even that of the sun on the summer’s hottest day.) 

“Then why’re you pouting?”  What he really means is why aren’t you smiling.  You don’t pout often - at least not in the same ways he does.  

“I’m not,”  you repeat for what feels like the sixth time. 

“Smile for me.”

You do the opposite - throwing your eyes in an exaggerated circle.  It earns you a pinch to the side, a tender sting blooming beneath ink-strewn fingers. 

“Really—“  When he looks this earnest, it’s hard to deny him,  “you’re sure everything’s okay?”

At most, you can sigh perhaps overdramatically.  Fold your awkward limbs upon his and bury your face into the crook of his neck.  You’re not jealous of those girls, no.   

You’re envious of his talent - the simple fact that Jeon Jungkook is, by all definitions, a golden boy.  God’s favourite, with his heart wrenching smile and easygoing charm and grace that seems almost surreal.  There’s not a single thing wrong with him - okay, except for his bad habit of never answering his phone and always messing up the top sheet and the fact that he absolutely never ever puts the cap back on the toothpaste tube - and it’s absurd.  Utterly, absolutely unfair. 

But you can’t say that.

“Baby,”  he hums, threading the sound of his voice among your hair, tucking the soft syllables behind your ears.  “Talk to me.”

You relent - a little.  “You’re too good.”

“Too good?”  The depth of his laughter rumbles your bones, tickling your insides when it vibrates out of his chest.  “At what?”

A hand gesticulates wildly.  You’re not sure what it looks like, how close it is to hitting Jungkook in the face.  You’ve still got your face pressed to the warmth of his skin, greedily siphoning his sunny radiance with your cheek.   “Everything.”

Despite how he laughs - cackles, really, so adorable and high pitched it’s breathy - you know he knows what you’re talking about.  You’ve given him a hard time about it before.  

“I’m not good at everything, ____.”

He’s somehow even good at making you believe you’re wrong.  That’s a feat in and of itself. 

“Are too.”

“Are not.”

“Whatever!”  Whether he acknowledges it or not, he’s stupidly gifted.  Everyone and their - even his - mom knows it.  “Don’t believe me then.  I don’t care.”

“Then why’re you making that face?”  It’s almost comical that he’s calling you out for your expressions when he’s the king of funny faces, throwing his features into exaggerated (and adorable) masks.  (Maybe he’d just rubbed off on you?)

“I’m not,”  you huff, exasperated but not quite.  Still soft over his skin, velvet on silk. 

“You’re so cute.”  Sometimes, you think he really is just a child - too happy with putting you on a pedestal and praying at your altar.  Devoting himself to you when you’re nothing but a bag of flesh and bone, dressed in designer fashion and wrapped up with a satin ribbon made from sarcasm and candor.  (Not that you mind.  Who would argue if they were offered such love?)  “I still think something’s wrong but…”

It’s a smart tactic.  He doesn’t press you for an answer, opting to let it linger between you.  Settle like bothersome lint until you offer it yourself.  

When you relent - because you always do, unable to shut out the sunshine that practically pours out of him - you’re quieter.  Not shy, but bashful.  Uncertain in a way you very rarely are.  “I’ve always wanted to dance.”  So much so, you’d begged your parents to enroll you when you were younger.  Demanded lessons upon lessons - only to fail at all of them.  Rhythm simply didn’t exist anywhere in your body. 

“Really?”

You’re pulled from your safe haven, shifted until your entire point of view is filled with Jungkook, his starry eyes and his fluffy fluffy hair.  There’s that look he sometimes gets - full of wonder and adoration - when he learns something new about you.  As if just the smallest tidbit of knowledge opens up a whole new world.  

“Yes?”  You’re half regretting the admission.  He looks like he’s up to something, all the cogs in his head turning in perfect tandem. 

“I’ll teach you.”  

“Hard pass.”

Like a hot air balloon, he deflates, mouth rounding sweetly.  (If you didn’t know better, you’d assume the man was made of cotton candy, semi-sweet chocolate heart where the real organ should be.)  “Why not?”

“I do not dance.”  It’s nothing but a statement of fact, firm and unyielding. 

The pout evolves, swings down into a frown that drags his eyebrows with it.  “You could dance.”

“No, baby—“  So you’re a little frustrated, all your childhood memories pricking beneath your skin.  “I do not dance.”

“Why?”  He’s upright now, tugging you with him as if you weigh nothing.  His way of turning the conversation serious, pulling you from the warmth and comfort of the bedsheets to this.  (He’s still holding you, hooking his big broad hands over your hips, so you don’t mind.) 

“No rhythm.”  Unable to keep a beat.  Two left feet.  The list could go on and on, according to your ballet instructor. 

“Not true.”

Your brow quirks, mirrored by his as if in challenge.  You almost swat at him - so close your hand twitches on his shoulder.  “Very true.”

(Why does this conversation feel so familiar?  It’s déjà vu.) 

“Is not.”  Your boyfriend seems insistent, as if he knows better than you.  (He doesn’t.)  Stares up at you with those pretty eyes and has the audacity to grin when you roll your own, ready to rebuff him. 

Because you’re in bed, the one place where you defer to him whether you like it or not. 

(You do like it, though.  Love it, in fact.  Just like you love him.)

“You’re graceful,”  he hums, bridging the gap between you with a forward roll of his shoulders.  “You’ve got rhythm.”  The hand on your hip grows firm, guides your knees to spread wide on either side of him.  With each brush of his lips - tender little brushes, endlessly sweet and reassuring - he pushes and pulls, dragging you across his lap.  “You can do anything you want.”

You’ve almost forgotten the topic of conversation, preoccupied by how he guides you in languid circles.  How the cotton of his boxer briefs feels against the sensitive inside of your thighs.  The weight that grows between your legs and nudges indelicately against the soft fabric of your thong.

All part of his plan, of course.

“Your body’s the most beautiful thing in the world, ____.”  

When he looks at you like this, you think he might be right.  You’d believe it if he kept saying it, sparking desire through your limbs until they’re jellied and loose.  

(How he sees right through you - cuts straight to the core of your insecurity - you’re not sure.  It feels almost like a superpower, something unquantifiable, unbelievable.  He’s too good for you, always.  So kind and loving, pressing his belief in the form of his mouth, the tender edge of his teeth when he kisses you slow slow slow.)

“You’re perfect just the way you are.”