#i said i would never draw chain mail again but i can have just a little as a treat

[kissme-withyour-cherrylipstick]

Got inspired to try a new style while visiting the Van Gogh Museum. I just love when you can see the brush strokes. Procreate brush 'turpentine'

Merlin 4x10 A Herald of the New Age

[lalalian]

let’s talk students: aethergarde dr (dragon rider school dr)

date: july 18, 2024

jkdshfkhskd it's been a hot sec since I've done this. Teagan won the poll last time, so we'll be going over him today!

pronunciation:

Teagan: (Tee-gen) (‘gen’ as in ‘again’)

Whit: (Wit)

appearance:

There are two kinds of people— you either prefer Teagan or Asterias. These two are genuinely so fine that students tend to like them (like a crush yk, not just platonically or smth LMAO) based on their personalities rather than solely relying on their looks.

Teagan’s got golden olive toned tanned skin, gray eyes, and full messy black hair. He’s got defined masculine leaning features and he’s ABSOLUTELY ripped. I didn’t make him like this without a purpose— It was simply because he helps his family transport heavy crates to different ships and wagons (I mean like he’s quite active in general, not just walking of course, he likes fighting and working out)

Teagan has a severe case of RBF despite his personality; he’s got no tattoos or piercings, tho I think he’d like to get his ears pierced.

I realized I haven’t said what style they like to wear, so I’ll do it for Teagan today (I’ll edit the rest of the posts with their own styles eventually). Teagan isn’t really into fashion; he values mobility and comfort over style as long as he doesn’t look, in his opinion, ‘noble and stupid’. He doesn’t like stiff shirts, so he usually wears looser garments. His wardrobe consists of brown, dark brown, black, cream, and very occasionally… dark green. He almost always wears some kind of boots (unless it’s a special occasion, he’d be wearing the black dress shoes his dad forced him to wear). As for his hair, if his hair’s long enough, he’ll tie it in the back. The most he’ll really do is brush through it.

personality:

Teagan’s a total extrovert and tends to have large circles of friends. When he’s alone for long periods of time, he can get a little antsy. I imagine that he’d bother his friends to hang out during finals season, but since everyone’s probably studying, he’d have to accept taking some notes in the library 😭

He’s the kind of guy that would try to help you out with literally anything, even if he’s not good at it. He’s a terrible artist, but loves to draw stupid things just to mail them to his friends. Teagan would definitely also pass notes around in class. Like Straus, he’s a terrible dancer, but yk at least Straus gets dance lessons… NEVER dance with this guy.

Despite his playful nature, he knows when to get serious. Teagan’s more of a logical thinker, but he’s incredibly kind and doesn’t like to see people he’s close to get hurt.

He really loves eating meat and raw fish. His dad had to stop him from eating fish straight up out a river (uncooked) many times as a child. Teagan’s also really good with kids; he knows how to cheer a kid up or teach them something without getting super irritated. Teagan’s weird asf not gonna lie, but hey at least he’s a really good cook. He doesn’t really cook for people he doesn’t know honestly, so like he only does it for people he’s close to.

relationships & status

Teagan was raised by his father after his mother died giving birth to him. Unlike a ton of Isekai manhwa fathers, his father didn’t hate him for being born, rather, he put all of his love into raising his son.

Teagan was raised well despite his non-noble status— his dad is a wealthy merchant. He often interacted with nobles because of his dad’s business; through these interactions, he grew a strong hatred for nobles. It isn’t rare for those higher in the social chain to treat people ‘lower’ than them with disrespect, and he definitely got a glimpse of this kind of mindset when attending meetings with his dad.

When Teagan was about 8 yrs old, his dad adopted another child off the street. This child ended up becoming Teagan’s little brother; his dad called him Archie because he used to arch his brow whenever he was the slightest bit confused— but then at around 3 years old, his dad decided that he needed a better name, so he named him ‘Archer’. Teagan and his dad still calls him Archie. When you shift here, Archie will be 13.

As you’d expect, Teagan’s really close with his dad and his younger brother. Teagan was supposed to inherit the family business, but since he’s an S-ranked rider, Teagan’s dad began teaching Archie all the stuff he needs to inherit his dad’s position just in case Teagan wants to do something else with his life.

His dad doesn’t want Teagan to be involved with super dangerous jobs; he’ll likely get pretty angry if Teagan wants to pursue a more dangerous career.

likes & dislikes:

likes:

-coffee, nothing added, just straight up black coffee

-wrestling with his brother

-cooking

-working out

-he likes fighting in general

-dogs. He likes dogs way more than cats

-the smell of leather

-dragons, he thinks they’re cool but he’s never aspired to be a rider simply because he didn’t think he’d be able to be one

dislikes:

-salads

-pooping (he’s got chronic constipation)

-reading

-tea unless it has boatloads of sugar in it

-nobles (yeah ik surprising, right?)

-chess

aura:

Teagan’s aura is an uncommon plume; unlike the students we’ve discussed before, his aura is single toned. I mean like the inner portion of his aura is darker, but like its bc the mana is more concentrated there yk?

#a8673e

dragon:

Teagan will bond to a male yellow wingwalker, and he’ll name him Kiser (Kai-sir).

strengths & weaknesses:

strengths:

-very physically strong

-good at cooperation (at times)

-great social skills

-dear god his martial arts skills are insane

-brave and persistent

weaknesses:

-finds reading boring; makes it hard for him to consume long texts, I’d imagine he’d ask someone close to him to read out a passage, then he’ll take notes that way

-a little dumb at times (it’s okay we love a himbo)

-has a habit of doing something crazy before thinking; he’d fight a monster he’s not really ready to fight for the fun of it

-can be lazy sometimes

-often wants someone near him to talk to; he likes to talk lmao

fighting style:

He mainly doesn’t use a weapon, but if he had to he’d fight with two sabers. His primary fighting skill is martial arts, his saber skills are average.

wanna know more about my aethergarde academy dr? here's a masterlist with everything I've posted about it!

[crashdevlin]

Opposites Don’t Attract (A Witcher Fic)

Author’s Note: This was written while I was fighting Covid19...so I’m pretty proud of that. I'm aware that not everyone likes the Witcher but this was the only thing that would could out of my head that week so...

I took bits of lore from the show, the books, and the games and mixed them all up into a cohesive awesomeness...also, the smut is pretty good, but the banter is where it's at with this one. If you guys like this, I might make it a series...so, let me know how you're feeling on it.

Summary:  Y/n is a witcher from the Cat School (a nomadic school that is one of the few that actually makes female witchers) who keeps running into Geralt of Rivia...to her great pleasure.

Pairing: Geralt x Female Witcher!Reader, mentions of Geralt x Yennefer and Geralt x Triss Merigold

Word count: 3869

Story Warnings: 18+! HERE BE SEX!! DON’T READ IF YOU’RE A YOUNG’UN!!!, unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of infertility, little bit of angst (it's a Cassie story...what do you expect?)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn’t often you crossed paths with the White Wolf. The Continent was vast and you both had work to do. But it was always a treat when you walked into a tavern and smelled the man.

"Geralt. What brings you to Kagen?" you asked, taking the stool next to him at the bar.

"A contract."

"Always so succinct, Wolf...and just a bit disrespectful. Isn't my school the one that's supposed to birth disreputable thugs?"

Amber eyes turned on you as you fiddled with your medallion, a silver coin with a cat's head on a silver chain. It hung right between your breasts and never came off.

"Here to kill a monster...or be a monster?" he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

A zing of indignant fury went through you but you stifled it instinctively. "I haven't taken a contract against a human in nearly twenty years. I've learned the error of my ways. I told you as such when we met last. Remember? The bard's impromptu celebration in Lyria." He grunted softly at you and looked away. "You do remember, don't you, Geralt?"

"My memory is fine, Feline."

"Then you remember folding me in on myself and making my body quake?" You set your hand on his thigh and watched his face for a reaction.

He gave no indication he even noticed your fingers over the conditioned leather. "Since when do you call them 'humans'? When last we met, you were still calling them by the slur."

You rolled your eyes. "That was a single slip. Another thing I've seen the error on. I've developed, I've grown. You have to admit that some things are hard to shake, like a word you shouldn't say or a prejudice you were taught as a small child. I wasn't really given a choice on who to sympathize with in the conflict. Cats and Elves, we go together. Call it a commiseration of outcasts."

He let out a long sigh before dropping his hand to yours. "You talk too much, Cat."

"Well, someone has to fill the silence around you. Jaskier doesn't seem to be around right now, so I'll take that mantle." You licked your lips and hummed as his fingertips slowly caressed the back of your hand. "I could help you fulfill your contract. Two witchers are better than one. What are you after?"

He turned his head just enough to catch your eyes. "You want to help me?"

"I want to fuck you, but I feel you're going to be distracted until you've got your coin so I might as well hasten that instance."

"Can I trust you to have my back in battle?"

You pulled your hand away and shook your head. "If I can alter my preconceived notions of humans, you can alter your notions of Felines. Or, in the very least, of me." You caught his eyes and held them without blinking. "I have known you for decades, Geralt. Can you trust me to have your back?"

He held your eyes for a few moments before he picked up his ale. "It's a graveir. Strength is more important than speed."

"Well, then I'll just have to pull its attention and hope it is hungry for witcher." You smiled. "And you can kill it before it eats me."

He smiled just a bit as he set his mug down. "Perhaps I'll let it eat you, kill it while it is sated and happy."

"Aww, but then the great White Wolf would never get to eat his fill of this Feline ever again."

He smirked as you set a coin on the bar and requested an ale of your own. "And what brought you to Kagen, Y/n?"

You smiled at the use of your name. "Tracking a man." His eyebrow went up so you clarified. "Just tracking. He's a historian. There's some question of the authenticity of some of the Aen Seidhe artifacts he's 'found'. He's at the whore house two down so I thought I'd have a drink while he was busy. A lucky stroke to find you."

"If you help me with the graveir, you might lose him."

You took a drink of your ale and turned on the stool. "You think we can't take down a graveir and have a fun night before a middle-aged human historian wakes from his well-deserved nap after a night of lust away from his wife?" You leaned next to his ear and whispered, "Are you underestimating me or yourself?"

"I could never underestimate you." He tipped his head back and finished off his ale and you chugged down your own. It was time to work.

As you moved to follow Geralt out of the tavern, a tall man with a sunburned face stepped in front of you.

"I didn't know they made witchers with tits," the foul-smelling farmer said with a guffaw at the end for good measure.

"Well, you've never seen the Butcher of Blaviken with his shirt off, have you?" you snapped, stepping away from him.

"You're a real one, then? You got the eyes, I see. They do all those mutations on you? Hear witchers are like a bitch in heat but cain't procreate. Now there's a perfect woman, right? Always ready to be filled, but never able to give me any more little brats."

Geralt sneered at the man's words but you just shook your head. "I guarantee no woman wants to be filled by you or your brats. Especially not this woman."

The drunk looked offended for a moment before he scoffed. "You're not a woman. You're a fuckin' mutant. Wouldn't want your-"

A blade was in your hand and held against his throat in a flash. "I'm a fucking mutant and a fucking woman and I want nothing to do with you."

"Apologize," Geralt demanded, quiet and intent.

The drunk looked down at the knife and blinked a few times, then nodded. "Sorry."

Your blade was back in its sheath on your hip before he could take another breath. "Let's go, Geralt."

"Hmm." He pulled open the large wooden door and walked out, you followed.

~~~~~~~~~~~

"When's the last time you saw the Caravan?" Geralt asked as you headed for the woods.

"You really don't think I've changed, do you?" He gave a noncommittal grunt so you rolled your eyes. "Even after that slime back at the tavern? I didn’t kill him. I didn't even hurt him. I didn't even spout off and call him a...well, if anyone deserves to be slurred, it's a man like that and I held my tongue." You reached out and slapped your hand across his chain mail. "Haven’t seen hide nor hair of Dyn Marv in…"

You rubbed your fingers across your eyes and shook your head. "I abandoned the Caravan the day I met you. The ideals were harder to shirk but I left my school the moment I realized that Gezras wasn't quite the savior they claimed. You had it right. You and the others up at Kaer Morhen, you know how...how a witcher's supposed to act. You were trained in the codes and morals, I wasn't."

"No, you were trained blindfolded on a tightrope across the rooftops of Oxenfurt."

"Let it never be said that Cat School is without our flair." You smiled over at him. "And it was Oxenfurt, the Cintran Capital, and Vengerberg. Nomads and all that."

Geralt looked over at you and smiled. "I can imagine the Cintran guard were very happy to have a bunch of witchers crawling across their roofline."

"Oh none of them ever cared for having a bunch of witchers in their city let alone running training exercises across their roofs. But not a one tried to stop us. You'll recall, there was a time when most feared and respected us more than they hated us."

"I don't recall people ever fearing Cat School," he teased.

"Ah-ha, you're so hilarious, Geralt. My sides are in stitches from all this laughter," you responded dryly.

You walked in relative silence for a few moments, your boots making no sound on the tall grass. "I didn't know meeting Vesemir affected you so much," he said eventually.

"Oh, yes. It was wise old Vesemir that showed me the error of my ways, not the dashing white-haired man who rode into Novigrad after him."

"Dashing. That's a new one."

"I'm absolutely certain it is not a new one, Geralt. Not for any woman who's had the pleasure to make your acquaintance." Your cheeks heated up in a way you imagined his never did. Wolves dulled emotion. So did Bears, and Vipers, and most schools. Most pushed down emotions to make a witcher less susceptible to fear and anger and sadness. Cat School was different. You were reminded of that every time you were around Geralt. "I bet 'dashing' would be one of the first words they'd use to describe you: the Triss Merigolds and Yennefer of Vengerbergs of the world."

He looked over at you as you approached a cemetery filled with recent dead from a bandit attack on the outskirts of Kagen. "Hmm. Is that jealousy I hear?"

"No!" you responded just a little too loud. "What do I have to be jealous of? They're two supernaturally beautiful sorceresses who've been part of your life much longer than I have. Besides, none of us really gets you for more than a night or two, right?"

He grunted softly in agreement, then offered a potion from his belt. You took it and swallowed it down, feeling your already-fast reflexes get a boost. "You're supernaturally beautiful too. It will make you better graveir bait."

You couldn’t focus on the compliment he'd given you as he pointed to a bloated ghoul digging into a fresh grave with short, strong claws. He was gone by the time you looked back but you could sense him moving around the outside of the cemetery.

Normally, this was the point when you'd draw your silver; approaching a ghoul as it ripped a limb from a corpse to make its meal for the night. The sword stayed on your back with your steel, however. You were to take its attention so Geralt could kill it from behind.

It was fairly easy, actually. You and Geralt, working in tandem, had the graveir as dead as his dinner before there was a chance for real trouble. It noticed you, it rushed you, you dodged and dodged and threw a punch or three to its ugly face and then Geralt appeared in your vision and the graveir met the sharp blade of a witcher's silver sword. No muss, very little fuss, and very little blood.

"You did good as bait," Geralt commented as you walked back toward the city. "Maybe I should have you play the snack on hunts more often."

"Oh? A snack for the monsters or a snack for yourself?"

"I'm serious. We work well together."

"It's not the first time we've worked together."

There had been, in fact, two other monsters that you helped Geralt with. A wraith terrorizing a man in Novigrad that you helped him with when you first met each other and a wyvern you encountered on the road. Geralt happened to have the contract on the wyvern and showed up to take it down as you were in the midst of killing it.

He graciously shared a portion of the coin garnered from his contract.

He hummed in acknowledgement. “You should come with me.”

You stopped and turned to look at him. “What?”

“Once you’ve fulfilled your contract on the historian, you should saddle up and travel with me. You said it yourself, ‘two witchers are better than one’.”

You looked up into his eyes and blinked a few times. “You miss Vesemir so much that you would travel with me just to have another witcher at your side?”

“Why don’t we leave it at ‘I enjoy your company’?” he suggested.

You started walking again, heading toward your mare, a Konik named Daisy, and Geralt’s mare, Roach. “Will you be staying in Kagen for a while?”

“I have a room at the inn. I can stay in Kagen until you return.”

“You’re serious about me coming with you? I thought sweet nothings were whispered in the throes of passion, not in the aftermath of battle.”

“You don’t have to come with me, Y/n.”

You shook your head. “I’ll have to think about it, Geralt.” You didn’t want to anger any sorceresses. You climbed up into Daisy’s saddle and grabbed her reins. “For now, let’s go to the inn. A bath and a bed sound amazing,” you said, before riding toward the city.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tub was small but you weren’t large. “How do you fit in this thing?” you asked, dunking yourself under the warm water.

“I’m very good at fitting into tight spaces.” Geralt stepped up behind you and kneeled down, setting his chin on your bare shoulder. “Do you need help getting clean?”

“No. But I’d love a bit of help getting dirty again after I’m done.” He hummed and nodded, turning his head to press his lips to your neck. You hummed happily and turned your head to give a bit more access and he took the invitation, running his hand down your body and under the water. You gasped as his fingers brushed your curls. “I’m not clean yet, Geralt.”

“Clean enough.”

You pressed closer to him, arching your hips and reaching back to grab the back of his head, pulling him further down. “More,” you whispered. He chuckled, slipping a finger down to tease your entrance. “Fuck, don’t tease.”

“Why not?” He nipped at your jawline and gave a low hum. “You know...the first time I heard your voice, I knew I’d have to hear you moan.” You gasped as his finger slipped into you down to the knuckle, your fingers digging into his scalp as the heel of his palm pressed into your clit. “I knew I’d have to feel you cum on my cock when I smelled you in the heat of battle.”

You moaned at the thought of Geralt, barely knowing your name, deciding that he’d have to have you just based on scent. It was something so animalistic, so inhuman...so uniquely witcher.

You twisted in the water and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in for a fierce kiss. You didn’t wait for an invitation into the cavern of his mouth, tugging on his bottom lip with your teeth as he gathered your body in his arms and carried you to the lumpy bed across the room. You pushed at his clothes without breaking the kiss, desperate to taste and feel him. Your fingers skimmed across the lines of his back muscles as you pulled his shirt off. His fingertips dug into your hips and moved to put bruising pressure on your ass as you started untying his trousers.

The man was a specimen. The mages at Kaer Morhen made the best of him. You didn’t have time to examine the body and the cock that were so prominent in your wettest dreams because he was obviously just as desperate for you. He got his trousers down and reached between your bodies, taking his length in hand and smearing the head of it in the wetness seeping out of you. You were just about to start begging when he slipped his cock into your cunt.

You lifted your hips to get more of him inside of you. You needed him stretching you and stuffing you. You needed him pushing you to the absolute limits. He fit you better than any ever had.

He rocked his hips against yours, his pelvis putting pressure against your clit as his cock barely moved against your walls. You wrapped your legs around him, ankles crossed at the small of his back, urging him deeper. He growled and grabbed your wrists, pulling your hands from his shoulders to pin them to the bed above your head.

No other man could put you in such a position. No other man controlled you like Geralt. You would never think to let it happen. No man, not even another witcher, could play you like such a fine instrument. A beautiful lute.

Part of you wished you didn't heal so efficiently, so quickly. Part of you wanted to wear his marks upon you for days, but his marks, just like the scent of your coupling, faded far too quickly for your liking. It left you with nothing but the memory and that just wasn't enough. Not when the man you were remembering was so...amazing.

You whimpered out a faint request and he heeded it, slamming his hips into yours harder. You struggled against his grip, desperate to get your hands in his hair, wanting to tug on the white locks, but he refused to relinquish control of your wrists. He gave you everything you needed, but not necessarily what you wanted.

Like you wanted to hear his voice, but the only time you really needed to hear it was when he leaned down next to your ear and demanded, “Cum, Cat.” Your toes curled and your head pressed back into the pillow, your hips arching closer to his as that finally cracking pleasure fell over you. Geralt lasted a while longer before he filled you, his cock pulsing against your walls as his breath caught in his chest, fingers tightening around your wrists as he came.

He pressed sweet kisses along your jawline as he pulled his half-hard member from your dripping pussy and his hands released your wrists to slide his fingers up to entwine with yours. You ended up with your legs tangled with his, neither of you seeming to care about the wetness of sweat and cum sticky between both of your thighs. You kept one of your hands clutched in his, but pulled the other away so that you could run your fingers through his hair as you stared at the ceiling.

“Do you give it much thought?” you asked, quietly. He made a questioning noise and popped open one eyelid to look up at you from where his head was on your breast. Your cheeks heated up and you licked your lips. “What they did to us. What the mages made of us. What they took from us.”

“Took?”

“Options. The options they took from us. We were children, Geralt. We were babies. They stole…” You cut your words off with a shake of your head. “I guess I’m the only one who thinks about it...and I can’t really imagine being some normal peasant wife with a litter of children and a world of misery, but I...I guess there’s some sweetness in the simplicity of their lives, you know? And I hate that I was never given that option. I was deprived of simplicity before I was even aware there was a difference between the folk in the Caravan and the rest of the world.”

Geralt was silent, but the way his fingers tightened their grip upon your hand filled you with a sense of calm. “People hate us, Geralt. They think us heartless, emotionless, cold. I learned to fake it, because that’s what people expect from someone with two blades on their back and these lovely eyes, but-”

“Cat School doesn’t dull emotions.”

“No. Not even with training. That’s a learned reaction to the outside world. I miss Dyn Marv fiercely sometimes because it’s...lonely away from people who understand. It’s hard to walk the Continent alone.”

He closed his eye and shifted a bit against you. “Why aren’t you with them, then?”

“Differences of morality.”

He was silent for a few minutes, just the sound of your breathing filling the room. “Opposites attract.”

“What?”

“It’s something the bard says. The idiot heard it from an alchemist once and he likes to believe it applies to relationships too. It’s why he goes after beautiful, cultured, married women. ‘Opposites attract’.” He sat up and looked down into your eyes. “But it’s horseshit. We look for companions that remind us of us. It’s why all of his women are as enamored with him as he is. Opposites don’t attract, Y/n...and that’s why you are someone I can’t say ‘no’ to.”

“Because we’re so alike?” you guessed.

“Yes.”

“Just because I’ve changed though, right?”

“No. You changed because you weren’t truly that woman. You were what the mages made you. What your teachers made you. You changed when you decided to.”

You licked your lips again and sat up a bit on your elbows. “What about your sorceresses?”

He smirked a little. “I don’t have sorceresses, Y/n.”

“Lovers. Ex or current?” you simplified the question.

“Current. Obviously,” he said, sarcastic humor in his voice as he ran his hand down your body.

You rolled your eyes and tried to ignore the way his touch lit your skin aflame with sparks of desire. “Geralt, I’m serious. If Yennefer were to ride into Kagen right now...if she knocked on that door…”

“Yen would just walk in. She’s never been one for other peoples’ privacy.” He leaned his head down when you didn’t express amusement at his jest, pressing his forehead to yours. “I could lie.”

“Not really. You’ve not proven yourself a good liar, Wolf.”

“True. I prefer honesty.” He sighed and looked away, sitting up to lean his back against the wall.

“Would you turn her away? Would you turn away Triss?” You sighed heavily. “I’m not trying to sound...like such a sodding woman, but...Geralt, you asked me to come with you. That seems like-” His pensive face made you question what you were even trying to get at. “You know what? I think it’d be better if I just head back to my job following Professor Lery and-”

“Don’t.” He grabbed your arm as you moved to get off the bed. “I care for Triss and I think I...loved Yennefer. But I...don’t think we’ll be an option again. She’s been upset at me since Triss.”

“Won’t this-”

“Stop questioning everything.” You closed your eyes as he leaned over and kissed you again. “Stay.”

“I have to finish the contract, Geralt. I’ve already been paid a hundred-fifty gold for it.”

“Then come back,” he demanded softly.

You smiled at him and nodded, but your heart was far less resolute than you were pretending. “Of course. Don’t go anywhere.” You rolled off the bed and grabbed your trousers and shirt, dressing hastily before grabbing your swords and potion belt. You kissed him one more time before leaving the room, swiping a loaf of bread off of a table in the tavern on your way out.

You weren’t sure if you were coming back to him. You wanted nothing more, but you weren’t looking forward to the moment one of his sorceresses came to call. “I’ll decide while I finish this job,” you told your horse, patting her lovingly. “Maybe it should just stay you and me, huh, Daisy. Maybe two witchers aren’t better than one.”

[maxineswritingcenter]

You Saved Me - Derek Hale x fem!reader part 11

 -----------------

As soon as I walked into the veterinarian office, I felt it. Like a total drain of my muscles and my head started to hurt. 

“Mountain ash.” Dr. Deaton said as he came out from around the corner, “It weakens werewolf abilities so they cannot shift their form.” 

“That would explain it.” I smiled, shoving my hands in my pockets. 

“How can I help you, (Y/N).” He knew my name.

I squinted at him, “Have we met?” 

“We have, but you wouldn’t remember. You were here with some minor injuries and your parents weren’t sure if you were going to turn and just in case…the hospital found something interesting.” He said, a small smile on his face, “But I see you have finally turned.” 

I nodded, “Yeah, but I don’t know how.” 

“I believe I may have an answer.” He pulled out a book from the front desk. It was a dark leather bound book, its pages were brown with age. 

“It was a spell used by werewolf clans that were being hunted hundreds of years ago, in France, Scotland, England. In some cases, werewolf hunters would test werewolves in their human form with Mountain ash, rendering them unconscious. Et obscuratus lupum. Wolf Eclipse.” I looked at the book, seeing a drawing of what looked like a child, half human, half wolf. 

“Parents would perform this spell to cloak their child from hunters. The Mountain ash wouldn’t affect them and they would be spared and safe until they could transform. This spell would also remove any memories of werewolf behavior from beyond that point so they couldn’t give away the rest of the clan by accident.” 

I looked down at the desk, “But why now? Why did I turn now? And why am I an alpha? I’ve never killed anyone.” 

“As for your turning now, many children are given back their power by their parents. Or if their parents were killed, they usually don’t unless something triggers the change - high stress, fear, terror, torture. But I can’t explain the alpha part, the only people who could were your parents.” 

-

“Derek? Derek!” Isaac’s voice echoed through the building. 

“What’s wrong?” Derek turned away from what he was doing. Isaac looked frantic and scared. 

“My dad… I think he’s dead…”

“What did you do?” Derek asked firmly. 

“That’s the thing…It wasn’t me.”

I woke up on the couch. Not the best place to sleep all night. 

I sat up and cracked my back, twisting from side to side. I shuffled into the kitchen, seeing Uncle Noah already there. 

“Morning, kiddo.” He said, sipping his coffee. He went with the dark roast this morning. Bitter. Something serious had happened. 

“Morning.”

“We found Lydia, I don’t know if you heard.” He said. 

I nodded, “Of course, talk of the town. Stiles is gonna get an A in economics.” 

He shook his head, a small smile on his face. He was still slightly sleepy, meaning I could probably get something out of him about what’s making him leave this early. 

“What’s going on?”

He yawned and raised his eyebrows. He looked around the corner then back to me, “Promise you won’t tell Stiles. And I’m only telling you because it involves one of your players.”

“Isaac?” I asked, “Is he okay?” Uncle Noah narrowed his eyes at me, clearly confused how I knew. 

“I had my own questions about his home life. A guess.” 

“Well we found his dad dead this morning. Mauled to death in his car in an alleyway.”

“Mauled?” Great… This is exactly what we needed with this hunter situation going around. Didn’t Derek tell Isaac that humans were off limits, especially right now? Isaac didn’t seem like the type, but if he was getting abused, maybe he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Yeah, not pretty. Oh, by the way.” He rifled through the mail, “This came for you at the station.” It was a brown envelope. It had multiple stamps and postmarks. The text was written in old English calligraphy. 

“The Lunar Circle.” I shook my head, “Never heard of it.” I looked at the return address, “Scotland?” 

“I guess so.” He looked at his watch, “Alright, gotta go.” He kissed the top of my head, making his way out the door. 

-

I got into the locker room later than usual, but in time to watch Scott and Stiles stare at a chain that was falling out of Stiles’ locker. Coach walked between the two of them, staring at the chain as it finished pooling on the floor. 

“Part of me wants to ask… the other part says knowing will be more disturbing than anything I could ever imagine. So, I’m gonna walk away.” Before I could speak to the two, Coach slipped the blind fold onto my eyes, the elastic slapping the back of my head. 

“Good looking out.” I nodded vaguely in his direction. Stiles shoved a bag in my hands, Scott and Stiles started shoving the chain into it and froze, Scott tensed up. 

Another scent. Someone like us. 

“There’s another in here.” Scott said. 

“Another what?” Stiles asked. 

“Another werewolf.” 

Once the players were on the field, Stiles pulled me aside. 

“Alright, switch Scott with Danny for goal and then you use your sniffer on the guys on the bench.” 

I raised my eyebrows at him, still not over what he said the other day. 

He stared for a minute, then closed his eyes, “The silent treatment, really?” 

I smiled slyly, nodding. 

“Oh my god.” He groaned, “Look, I’m sorry. I know you’re just trying to protect me. I get it. We can have this conversation later, please.” 

I thought about it for a minute, then nodded, “Fine. I’ll go tell Coach.” I found Finstock and told him. 

“Why would I want McCall in goal? McCall is co-captain. He needs to play offense.” 

“That’s true, but what happens when Danny gets hurt during a match. Are you gonna put in someone from second line or someone with those reflexes?” He stared for a minute, thinking about what I just said. 

“Think about it like this. Danny’s out, it’s tied and we are ten seconds from overtime. Who are you putting in? Second line or McCall.” 

He nodded and chuckled, “Good thinking.” He turned back to the other players and blew his whistle, “Let’s go! Line up!” Players made their way onto the field, “Faster! Make daddy proud.” Daddy… I hate it. I scanned the line up, there was number fourteen at the end - Isaac. 

Coach blew the whistle again, signaling the drills to start. Scott ran from the goal, tackling the player. Scott was many things. Subtle was not one of them. 

“McCall!” Coach shouted, his eyes wide and his hair seemed even wilder. 

“Yeah?”

“Usually, the goalie stays somewhere within the vicinity of the actual goal.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Let’s try it again!”

“What the hell, man?” The player shouted. His name was…  Matt Daehler if I remembered correctly. 

Coach blew the whistle again, throwing another ball into play. Again, Scott knocked the next player down. 

“McCall!” Coach called again, “The position’s goalkeeper, not goal-abandoner!’

“Sorry, Coach…”

“Let’s go!” He blew the whistle. Again, Scott knocked the next man down. 

“Stiliniski!” Coach pulled Stiles up by his helmet. Stiles stood up from the bench on the other side of me, “What the hell is wrong with your friend?”

“Uh, he’s failing two classes, he’s a little socially awkward, and if you look close enough, his jawline is kinda uneven.” Stiles said in a rush. 

Coach and I turned heads to the side, looking at McCall. Was his jaw always crooked? Had I not noticed in all of this time?

“That’s interesting.” He said, dropping Stiles' helmet. Scott knocked over Danny next, landing on top of him. Danny was having a good year so far. 

“McCall!” Coach shouted, clearly frustrated, “You come out of that goal one more time, and you’ll be doing suicide runs ‘til you die! It’ll be the first ever suicide run that actually ends in a suicide! Got it?” 

“Yes, Coach.”

“Yeah!” Coach glared. 

Jackson looked at Scott warily, “Uh, Coach, my shoulder’s hurting… I’m gonna-I’m gonna sit this one out…” He watched out of the line and onto the bench. What’s gotten into him? Besides not the bite. Scott ran forward at Isaac. But instead of Scott taking him down, they both collided and fell to the ground. That’s when I saw Scott pause, he found his werewolf. 

“Dad?” Stiles asked. I turned around, seeing Uncle Noah and two other officers heading towards the field. They must have been coming to bring Isaac in for questioning. 

“Don’t tell them…Please don’t tell him.” I heard Isaac say. 

-

I stayed back with the rest of the team while Finstock was talking to Uncle Noah. Scott was listening in on the conversation. 

“His father’s dead. They think he was murdered.” Scott said. 

Stiles looked at me, “Is that what you and my dad were talking about this morning?”

“There may have been something Uncle Noah told me not to tell you.” I grinned innocently. 

“Come on…” Stiles sighed, “Are they saying he’s a suspect?”

“I’m not sure. Why?”

“Because they can lock him in a holding cell for twenty-four hours…”

“Like, overnight?”

“Those generally are the same amount of time, yes.” I said. 

“During the full moon.” The full moon. Not only would it be Isaac’s first turn, it was going to be mine. 

“Crap.” I mumbled. 

“How good are these holding cells at holding people?”

“People? Good. Werewolves? Probably not that good.” Stiles said grimly.

“Stiles, remember when I said I don’t have the urge to maim and kill?”

“Yeah…”

“He does.” How Scott could tell that, I couldn’t tell. Because I didn’t get that vibe.

-

I made my way through the hall, seeing Uncle Noah in the hall outside the principal's office. 

“What’s going on?” I asked, not seeing Isaac near. 

“We’re interviewing Jackson Whittemore. He’s Isaac’s neighbor, we’re just trying to see if he knows anything. I’m just waiting to meet the new principal.” 

“New principal?” I asked. Right after I spoke, the door opened. And there stood Gerard Argent. I tried to hide my shock when I saw him, since the last time I saw him I watched him cut someone in half. 

“Sheriff Stilinski, I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting. Just a phone call from one of my teachers.” He said in his brogue, he turned to me, “And Miss (Y/N), assistant coach for our lacrosse team. I have been anxious to meet you.” He held out his hand. Oh, he was anxious? Yeah definitely. 

I blinked, a small smile on my face, “It’s good to meet you as well. I apologize for my shock, I was not aware that you had been hired.” I shook his hand. His hands felt cold, like the ice in his heart spread through his veins. 

“I understand. It was quite unexpected. But I am excited to get started.” He played his role well. An older man happy to help and be accommodating to his new surroundings. I knew the truth though, and it terrified me. But I needed to lay low and stay on his good side for right now. He declared war, no longer following the code and Chris couldn’t stop him like he stopped Kate. 

“Of course. I’m excited to work with you too, Mr…?”

“Argent.”

“Oh like Allison. She’s such a sweet girl, I always see her at games.” 

“She became a fan.” He nodded. In the distance, I could hear Jackson’ walking down the hall. How did I know it was Jackson? His brand new shoes squeaked.

“Well, I gotta head out. Delivery came to the front office for the team. Pearls and crosses. It was good meeting you, Principle Argent.” 

“Please, call me Gerard.” He smiled. 

I grinned and nodded, “Gerard.” I looked at Uncle Noah, “I’ll see you tonight.”  I made my way towards the front office, glad that the hunter couldn’t hear my heart beating out of my chest. 

“You okay?” Derek’s voice echoed in my head. 

I sighed, taking a deep breath, “No. They took Isaac into lock up, Gerard is the principal, and I am going to turn tonight whether I want to or not and I’m scared.”

“We’ll talk.” 

-

I sat on the front steps, looking over the envelope. The Lunar Circle. Was this something my parents were involved in? Just as I was about to open the envelope, I got a text from Scott to meet him and Derek at Isaac’s house. 

So I met them there, looking up at the sky. I had already cracked all of my knuckles so now I just was wearing a hole in my shoe from tapping. 

“Are you alright?” Scott asked. 

“I don’t know, Scott, were you okay when you turned the first time? Because I can recall you almost killing me the last time.” My eyes flashing red.

“Hey, I apologized for that.” Scott defended himself. 

“(Y/N), look at me.” Derek stood in my line of vision. The red left my eyes and I sighed. 

“Sorry, I’m just… anxious.” I clenched and unclenched my hands. 

We snuck into the Lahey household, making our way down to the basement. 

“If Isaac didn’t kill his father, who did?” Scott asked as Derek led us through the house. Derek moved slowly, keeping a flashlight beam ahead. 

“I don’t know yet.” 

“Then how do you know he’s telling the truth?”

“Because I trust my senses. And it’s a combination of them.” He looked at Scott over his shoulder, “Not just your sense of smell.” 

“You saw the lacrosse thing today?” Scott asked sheepishly. 

“So you saw him tackle and sniff everyone on the field, his big plan.” I added.

“Yeah.” Derek said plainly. 

“Did it look bad?” 

“Yeah.” Derek and I said together. Derek opened the door and we all looked down to the bottom of the basement, Scott and Derek’s eyes lit up the space a little, enough to see what was below. There were the usual things - chairs, dust bunnies, boxes.

“You wanna learn?” Derek asked, “Start now.”

“What’s down there?”

“Motive.” We started down the stairs. 

“And what are we looking for?”

“Follow your senses.” Derek said. I strayed from the group, seeing dust covered toys and games, covered with age and gray. It looked like a normal basement, but it felt like something terrible had happened here. Derek took my hand in his, pulling me back to them. 

“What happened down here?” Scott asked. 

“The kind of thing that leaves an impression.” Derek said in a low voice. It was kind of creepy, in addition to the spider web covered basement. As we went further into the basement, we saw chains hanging from the wall. My heart sank. I took Derek’s flashlight and lit up the floor, there were groove marks in the floor. Scott bent down and placed his fingers within the groove. Scratches in the cement floor. My attention was brought to a large freezer in the corner of the with a rusted padlock. The energy radiating from the cooler made my heart drop into my stomach. 

“Open it.” Derek told Scott as we stood in front of it. Scott took off the lock and lifted up the lid of the freezer. My mouth fell open in shock, tears burning at my eyes. Scratch marks, covering the entire inside of the freezer. The worst were the rust covered marks, meaning that Isaac was so desperate to fight his way to freedom that his fingers bled. I turned away from the freezer, feeling nauseous. Leaning over, my hands on my knees. 

“This is why he said yes to you?” Scott asked. 

“Everyone wants power.” 

“If I help you, you have to stop. You can’t just go around turning people into werewolves!” Scott had a point. It was dangerous to be a werewolf right now. That’s why my parents did that ritual on me. 

“I can if they’re willing.” 

“Did you tell Isaac about the Argents? About being hunted?”

“Yes, and he still asked.” 

“Then he’s an idiot!” Scott shouted. 

I stood back up and stared at Scott, “An idiot? He’s been tortured his whole life, Scott, and he’s the idiot for trying to save himself.” There was a growl in my voice as my anger rose. Derek put a hand on my arm.

“You’re the idiot dating Argent’s daughter.” Scott looked shocked at Derek’s words, “Yeah, I know your little secret. And if I know, how long do you think it’s gonna take for them to find out?”

Derek grabbed Scott by the shoulder, “You saw what happens to an omega. With me, you learn how to use all your senses. With me, you learn control.” He lifted Scott’s clawed hand, “Even on a full moon.” Seeing Scott’s hands, I lifted mine and saw the claws had grown in. I hadn’t even felt them come out. 

Scott pulled his hand away, “If I’m with you, I lose her.” 

“You’re gonna lose her anyway. You know that.” 

I shook my head, thinking about the night Peter was killed. The look in Allison’s eyes as she shot arrows into Derek and I was cold, no emotion at all. “Scott, don’t you remember what happened? She shot us down.” 

“That wasn’t her, that was Kate.” He defended her, like a love sick puppy. 

“Was it? You didn’t get to see her when Kate brought her down to that cellar and watched as Derek got electrocuted, over and over. She did nothing to stop her, she knew it was wrong but she didn’t stop her. Allison’s loyalties are never going to be with us.” My voice was calm but the shaking was starting to take over. It felt like my chest was going to burst at any moment. Even my gums ached. 

“Come on.” Derek said softly in my ear. He escorted me to the stairs, a gentle hand on the small of my back. 

“Wait!” We turned back to face Scott, “I’m not part of your pack… but I want him out. He’s my responsibility too.”

“Why? Because he’s one of us?” 

“Because he’s innocent.”

-

I sat in the parking lot of the Sheriff’s office, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. I can’t do this. How can I help break Isaac out of jail when I can’t even keep myself in control. I shouldn’t be around people. I shouldn’t be around Stiles or anyone else in the deputy department. I jumped when I heard the knocking at my window. Derek and Stiles stood there, looking a little concerned. I opened my door and got out, sticking close to Derek. If anyone could stop me from attacking Stiles it was him. 

“Okay. Now, the keys to every cell are in a password-protected lock-box in my father’s office. The problem is getting past the front desk.” Stiles stared at me like I was from Mars, “I gotta tell ya, I don’t think I’m going to get used to the red eyes anytime soon.”

“Yeah, me either.” My voice had a growl too, quickly shutting my mouth. 

“Well, there goes plan A. Letting you distract the front desk.” I glanced inside, seeing a woman sitting there, sipping her coffee. 

“I’ll distract her.” Derek said, turning towards the building. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Stiles grabbed onto Derek’s jacket and pulled him back., “You? You’re going in there?” Derek eyed Stiles hand, then Stiles, telling him to get his hands off of him in his usual way - without words.

“I’m takin’ my hand off.” Stiles quickly pulled his hand away. 

“I was exonerated.”

“You’re still a person of interest.”

“An innocent person.” 

“Ah-” Stiles blew out air, “You? Yeah right.” He sighed, “What’s your plan?”

“To distract her.” Derek said impatiently. 

Stiles nodded, “Ahuh, how? By punching her in the face?” 

Derek let out a fake laugh, “By talking to her.” 

“Is he even charming?” Stiles looked at me. Derek looked at me expectantly while I thought for a minute. 

“Compared to when I first met him, he’s very charming.” I smiled awkwardly. 

Stiles rubbed his temples, “Okay. Alright. Give me a sample. What are you gonna open with?” Derek only stared. 

“Dead silence. That should work beautifully. Any other ideas?” Stiles asked sarcastically.

“I’m thinking about punching you in the face.” Derek said snidely. Once Stiles agreed, we made our way towards the station but before we went in, I pulled Derek aside. 

“I can’t do this.” I looked up at the moon, “My body feels like it's going to fall apart and I feel so angry and-” 

“Just hold out a little longer.” He placed a hand on my cheek, “As soon as we get Isaac out, I’m gonna bring you somewhere where you can let it all out and you won’t hurt anyone. But right now I need you to get inside and make sure nothing happens to Isaac. There’s a hunter in there who’s going to kill him.” 

“Okay, I’ll try.” 

Derek led the way into the station, Stiles and I stayed low to avoid the deputy. 

“Good evening, how can I help-” She paused, looking up at Derek, “you?”

Derek gave her a thousand watt smile, “Hi.”

“Hi.” The woman said with a little tremble in his voice. She leaned on the desk. 

“Um, I had a question…” he chuckled, “Um, sorry, I-I’m a little thrown. I wasn’t expecting someone…”

“Like me?” She asked. 

“Oh, I was going to say ‘so incredibly beautiful’, but yeah, I guess that’d be the same thing.” Derek said sheepishly. Stiles stared at Derek’s back in disbelief. I shoved his side. He shook his head and we crawled down the hall to uncle Noah’s office. 

Once inside, Stiles used a code on a keypad on the wall that opened a small hatch. It was empty inside. In the next room we heard the jingling of keys.

“Oh no…” Stiles and I ran towards the source of the noise, getting closer and closer to the cells. On our way there we were stopped short by a deputy. 

“Oh, sorry,” Stiles apologized, “Just lookin’ um…” I looked over the deputy, then I saw it - an arrow sticking out of his leg. I hit Stiles' side. He looked down, then back up at the deputy. 

“Ah shhh-'' We tried to run for it but he grabbed us, pressing his hands over our mouths so we couldn’t scream. I wanted to rip his hand off with my teeth but that would be putting Stiles in danger and outting myself as a werewolf to a hunter if he got away. As we were dragged back towards the cells, Stiles pulled the fire alarm. 

Once in the cells, he threw Stiles and I into one of them. I clenched my fists together tightly, desperately trying not to turn. Sharp teeth poking at my lips. Stiles grabbed my arm, bringing my attention to the other cell, the empty cell. Isaac was loose. The hunter’s shout brought us back to see him being attacked by Isaac. He pinned the hunter to an examination table, then threw him against a wall. The hunter struggled but got up, trying to stab Isaac with a syringe but Isaac grabbed his arm and broke it. Isaac slammed the hunter’s head into the wall, he fell, dropping the syringe. 

Derek came into the room shortly after, stepping on the syringe. The sound of glass breaking turned Isaac’s attention to us. His yellow eyes took us in, his fangs and claws sharp. He stalked forward towards us. I shoved Stiles behind me, baring my fangs at Isaac as he came closer. Derek’s roar broke Isaac out of his trance, making him fall to the floor and scramble to the corner. He looked up from the wall, looking more human. He was trembling in fear. 

“How did you do that?” Stiles asked, trying to catch his break. 

“I’m the alpha.” Derek smirked, his eyes red. 

Ignoring the trembling the best I could, I walked over and kneeled beside Isaac. He was breathing heavily, eyes darting around the room like he was expecting someone to show up. 

“Isaac.” his eyes focused on me, “Let’s get you home.” I smiled and held out my hand.

----------------

Read part 12 here!

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[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 295: So How Are You Holding Up (Because I’m a Potato)

Previously on BnHA: Horikoshi randomly and graciously decided to answer all of our long-standing questions about Mr. Compress, including “is he secretly hot,” “is he secretly related to that Robin Hood thief guy,” and “is he ever going to use his quirk to chain chomp a hole right through his ass??” with the answer to all three being “yes, of course.” As for our follow-up questions, “sir, is Mr. Compress going to die,” and “holy shit,” his answers were, respectively, “wait and see,” and, “I understand, really I do, but that isn’t actually a question.” Well, he’s got us there.

Today on BnHA: Horikoshi finally ends the War arc with the speed and grace of an overworked college student scrambling to BS their entire midterm essay with five minutes left before the deadline. Deku’s Spidey Sense is all “what up, I exist, p.s. you’re in danger kid” like oh shit, no, you think?? Compress is all “I’m not gonna die but I am going to pass out and be captured” and honestly, at this point I’ll take it. Spinner is all “Tomura you can have this one last Souvenir Hand I found that was in the oven for too long” and slaps it on his face because HE’S JUST TRYING TO BE HELPFUL, SHUT UP. Dabi is all, “[currently in a marble].”Tomura is all “actually, I’m AFO.” AFO is all “hahahahaha” and summons all of the remaining Noumus to cart him and Spinner and Dabi off to safety. Deku is all “DAMMIT TOMURA I’M REALLY MAD AT YOU FOR KILLING, AND I QUOTE, ‘AN UNBELIEVABLE AMOUNT OF PEOPLE’, BUT AT THE SAME TIME, GET THIS, I TOTALLY WANT TO SAVE YOU TOO! LMAO ISN’T THAT WILD.” Fandom is all “OH MY GOD, NO WAY, is what we would say if we had literally never met Deku before, I guess.” And then the arc just ends, lol. See you in the new year, kids.

WAKE UP, LINK... I MEAN, DEKU

jesus christ Vestiges, not a one of you guys has got any chill at ALL. LISTEN TO ME. THIS CHILD IS DEAD. HE IS DECEASED. LOOK AT HIM. HE’S LYING THERE ALL DAZED WITH HIS ARMS AND LEGS TURNED INTO GREEN PUDDING AND YOU’RE ALL “GET UP LAZYBONES” LIKE I SWEAR TO GOD. CAN HE JUST REST?? CAN YOU ALL JUST CALL IT A DRAW WITH THE VILLAINS ALREADY SO WE CAN FINALLY END THIS TRAUMATIC ARC AND MOVE ON TO THE NEW “TRIAGE AND ROBOT LIMBS FOR EVERYBODY” ARC INSTEAD

LIE BACK DOWN YOU IDIOT!!

no you didn’t pass out because of a ~heatwave~, you passed out because he set you on fire while you were out here shooting Blackwhip out of your mouth with your SPINDLY ACCORDION LIMBS dangling uselessly from you like WINDCHIMES you RIDICULOUS BOY

“where’s Todoroki-kun” oh shiiiiiiit. right. god I hope someone caught him. BAKUGOU OWES HIM A FAVOR, HOW ‘BOUT IT

OH NEVER MIND HE APPARENTLY CAUGHT HIMSELF??

Todoroki Shouto has really highkey been the MVP of the entire fourth quarter of this arc. he deserves the world, and odds are all Horikoshi’s going to give him are lasting trauma, and a souvenir shirt that says “I survived this stupid arc and all I got was this t-shirt”

anyway now Deku’s being hit by a Lightning Bolt of Realization or some such? idk what’s going on, but I bet you it’s related to Tomura waking up again

OH SHIT??

LOL WHAT. THAT’S IT?? SPIDEY-SENSE?? I mean we all predicted Spidey-Sense being one of his quirks like ages ago, so Well Done, Us, I guess

but also, seriously?? all of that drama and intrigue about the fourth user’s quirk and this is what we end up with? what was All Might being so cagey about then? how did this dude die? I need answers goddammit. new, better answers lol

maybe it’s something to do with the fact that Deku keeps talking about how his head hurts?

I mean, for Deku of all people to be all “ouch that hurts”, it must really fucking hurt, you know? like oh my god Deku are you dying

lmao and SPEAKING OF PEOPLE WHO APPARENTLY DON’T FEEL PAIN

this man is out here FROLICKING, half-naked and half-torsoed, AND STILL FEVERISHLY RATTLING OFF HIS MONOLGOUE. YOU HAVEN’T EVEN ESCAPED YET YOU DINGUS. did watching Dabi pour bleach over his head inspire you to think of interesting new ways you could abuse your own body for the sake of Theatrics?? why are villains Like This

anyway so now Mirio’s punching him, because what else are you even supposed to do in this situation

I read this speech bubble three times in a row very carefully this time around just to make sure I was reading the words right. and then looked for a T/L note below. and there was none. whatever RHA, at least you all are out here enjoying yourselves

wait what?

I guess he hasn’t woken up yet after all?? so then wtf is Deku’s Spidey Sense getting all worked up about. I mean to be fair there’s danger all around them still so having a Spidey Sense in this kind of situation is kind of like bringing a smoke alarm to a BBQ

now what

wait did he put them back in the marble?? or is that panel just meant to show us how they were in the marble earlier?? Horikoshi please make this less confusing, I’m already having trouble staying focused as it is. and on top of everything else Compress is cascading blood like Niagara Falls right now and I’m starting to wonder if you really are going to kill him off

anyway so Mirio is still in mid-punch, and now he’s reaching out to punch Spinner with his other hand. heh. Mirio please be careful Tomura is right there, and I swear to god Horikoshi IF HE LAYS A HAND ON HIS SWIRLY BLOND HEAD SO HELP ME I WILL MAIL YOU A VIAL OF MY TEARS

okay seriously what the hell is happening

when you attach?? everyone?? to your body?? whose body?? who is this??

oh wait okay it’s a flashback to Tomura talking about his Hands

lmao this is so disjointed, I can’t tell what’s a flashback and what isn’t and whose thoughts these are lmao I give up. I’m just going to fire up a bunch of question marks until this starts making some goddamn sense. ???????

??????

????????

-- !!!!!!!!!!!

okay hold up. so did Spinner just slap Tomura’s last remaining Signature Fashion Hand onto his face just now for absolutely no reason?? is that what’s going on?? and fuck me but it actually worked too, lmao. is your buddy unconscious and unresponsive to stimuli?? no problem, just slap ‘em in the face with a burnt and shriveled severed hand. works every time

p.s. I SWEAR TO GOD HORIKOSHI. IF YOU TOUCH MIRIO!!! HE’S A GOOD BOY LEAVE HIM ALONE

??????????

OKAY WELL. I STILL HAVE NO IDEA WTF IS HAPPENING, BUT AT LEAST MIRIO’S NOT DEAD. KACCHAN GOT BLOWN AWAY THOUGH SOB. HOW IRONIC THAT THE GOD OF EXPLOSION MURDERS WOULD BE MURDERED BY AN EXPLOSION WHILE I WAS BUSY SAYING “OH MY GOD”

ohhhhhh, okay. so this is AFO’s narration

and that’s a partial answer to the question of “why did AFO bother raising Tomura up as his heir if he was planning on taking over his body the whole time.” apparently it makes it easier to control him. joy :’)

also this image of a potato wearing a Tomura wig is sending me fjkllkhl

oh my god he summoned all the Noumu to him like Aquaman and his sea creatures. this whole situation just keeps on getting better

-- oh hell no. oh fuck me, fucking shit

SHIT SHIT SHIT. I’M SORRY SPINNER, TOMURA CAN’T COME TO THE PHONE RIGHT NOW

oh my god. I fucking hate everything right now oh my god

I GUESS WE FIGURED OUT WHAT DEKU’S SPIDEY SENSE WAS WARNING HIM ABOUT, THEN ಠ_ಠ

fucking great!! so I guess nobody is getting a happy ending today, then. the heroes got their asses handed to them (sorry Compress, it’s a figure of speech, didn’t mean to be disrespectful); Deku and Kacchan died; Shouto’s evil brother came back from the dead to ruin his life; everyone and their dog lost various limbs; and the villains have now lost Twice (dead), Compress and Machia (presumably going to be captured), and now their fearless leader’s body has been completely taken over by AFO, which is such an unsexy development that it managed to completely undo all of the Mr. Compress Sexiness from last week. goddamn it

DAMN IT HORIKOSHI ARE YOU REALLY GOING TO END IT LIKE THIS

up close Hadou’s face is looking pretty rough. :/ that’s going to scar over isn’t it. at least she’ll look like a badass

meanwhile I appreciate that Horikoshi drew what looks to be a little puff of air next to Kacchan’s mouth, just to reassure us all that he’s not actually dead. that’s fine. you just lie there then. also his wound really is in the exact same place as All Might’s and it’s giving me all kinds of feels you guys but whatever I’m not gonna sit here dwelling on it all day

AND POOR SHOUTO. IS HE STILL CRYING OMG. AND ENDEAVOR, WAY TO DO NOTHING STILL. THE ALL TIME CHAMP OF SITTING AROUND AND STARING, GOOD FOR YOU

ARE YOU FOR REAL, ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS RIGHT NOW

(－‸ლ)

lol

“peace out, loser.” “SHUT YOUR TRAP, HO.” quality encounter right here

anyway so he’s blasting Deku with something and Deku’s just flying back all unconscious-like. so then, what even was the point of all that, huh

oh I see, it was to lead us into one last Deku monologue to close this arc out

oh my god Deku if you say you’re going to save him I will turn around and do a cannonball into a ballpit of feels right now, don’t do this to me

OH SNAP I THINK HE’S GONNA THOUGH

DID HE LOOK LIKE HE NEEDED SAVING?? I MUST CONFESS YOU AND I ARE OF A MIND HERE, YOUNG BROCCOLI. YES IN SPITE OF ALL THE MURDERS. WHAT CAN I SAY IT’S COMPLICATED

by the way I just have to point out here, that after all of those impossibly pretty close-ups of Hawks’s unconscious face, Horikoshi really did my child dirty here lmao

he looks like a squished cockroach. THAT’S MY BABY BOY

and it looks like the cavalry is finally on its way too! took them long enough. so I guess they can take care of any of the remaining Noumu stragglers, but first let Deku finish his speech. listen up Deku I really need you to say something cool and iconic to cap off this thus-far admittedly underwhelming Last Chapter Of The Year, here

AHHHHHHH YES HE REALLY DID IT HE SAID THE THING

well he thought the thing, anyway. close enough. I’ll take it!

so this is really the end of the arc then! or at least I hope, good lord. anyways, all right then so let’s do a quick status check:

it looks like the Noumu are hauling Tomura and Spinner away to safety, but it doesn’t look like they managed to save Machia or Compress. this honestly might be in Compress’s best interests though. the heroes can get him some medical help along with Kacchan and Endeavor and everyone else

Dabi is apparently hidden inside Spinner’s scarf, but do they have any way of releasing him without Compress there to undo the quirk? will he be all right in there. like how is he going to get food and water and air and stuff lol. does it wear off after a bit? can Compress undo it when he wakes up, even if he’s in custody? is there a distance limit on it?

and Skeptic was presumably turned into a marble as well, but Compress didn’t bother mentioning him at all. nobody cares about poor Skeptic lol

and bonus AFO theories status check:

Dad for One - AFO called Deku worthless and hasn’t seemed to take the least bit of interest in him despite getting to see his fancy SIXQUIRKS up close and personal. so if he is his dad he sure as heck is a terrible one, that’s all I can say

All for One for All/Deku is a horcrux - well the Spidey Sense seems to offer an alternative explanation to why Deku could sense AFO’s presence, but on the other hand it doesn’t explain why AFO was able to sense Deku’s as well (seeing his dreams and such). still thinking there’s a connection there, guys, idk

AFO is the final villain - five words for you: “EVERYTHING IS FOR MY SAKE.” is that concrete enough yet lol. pretty sure this arc marked both the beginning and end of Tomura’s brief stint as the Big Bad. Deku’s got it in his mind to save him now somehow, and we all know what happens when Deku starts getting determined to save people. look out AFO

as for the heroes, they’re all varying degrees of Fucked and I think it’s honestly too much to even take stock of at this point. maybe if I get a rush of hyperfixation in the next couple days or so I’ll do a separate post analyzing the impact of this arc and where things currently stand and where they might be headed from here

but in the meantime, ngl, this chapter was kind of a hot mess lmao. but whatever, I don’t even care because at least he managed to get all of it done within the allotted 17 pages, meaning that next week (or rather two weeks from now, sob) we really can get moving onto the aforementioned Triage arc! BRING ON THAT ANGST. I am so fucking hyped goddammit

[lostinfic]

So sorry, my fault I haven't checked the original prompt post with your comments! Doctor x Rose, 13 and 30 if you want to, please :)

Rosebush & nightgown

Nine x Rose; Medieval/Fantasy~ish AU; Rated: light M

I’m taking prompts!

//

The Harvest moon cast an orange glow over the Duke’s castle and its bountiful surroundings. John of Gallifrey, the captain of the guards, walked the length of the north wall. His chain mail chinked with every step, loud in the quiet night. Quiet that was soon disturbed by snapping branches and mumbled profanity.

Drawing his sword, John approached the rosebushes where the noise was coming from.

A cloaked figure was fighting the thorny branches. Their hood fell off, revealing the blond hair of a maiden.

John relaxed. He sheathed his sword, but kept his hand on the pommel, as he watched the woman struggle to get off the bush. With the sound of ripping fabric, she rolled off and landed on her arse.

“Ouch! Son of a lich.”

John snorted, and Rose noticed him for the first time.

“I thought I told you to stay away,” he said.

“I thought I told you, Captain, the villagers need my help,” she retorted.

He’d seen her a few times, stealing medicinal plants from the gardens, but never caught her until about a month ago. Still, he’d let her off with a warning. A warning she hadn’t taken heed of, obviously. Anger rose in him; he’d tried to help, but now he’d have to arrest her.

“Don’t you know how to grow your own plants? Some herbalist, you are.”

She didn’t answer, which made him suspicious, she always talked back.

“Unless… you’re not stealing from the Mage’s garden, are you? Oh, you stupid maid.”

“The way I see it, everyone’s sick because the Duke is making them work so hard and taking all their food. It’s only fair we take something back from him.”

John wished he could argue with that logic. In fact, he wished he could do more for the villagers. Since the former Duke’s death, his greedy son had taken over. John and his men used to help tenants with construction work and harvest (in fact he’d helped Rose’s mother, widow Tyler), nowadays, he spent most of his time guarding one landlord’s wealth.

Clouds parted, and in the full moonlight, he saw for the first time how badly hurt she was. Her cloak was torn, her face scratched and her fists clenched in pain.

“Rose…”

“Can I go now?”

He looked around. She couldn’t climb back over the wall in this state, and he couldn’t sneak her out with this bright moonlight without his men noticing.

“Come with me,” he ordered, striding ahead.

Rose hesitated, uncertain about his intentions. He hadn’t gripped her arm or threatened her with a weapon, so she decided to trust him.

As captain, John had his own, private lodgings, a thatch-roof hut beside the guards’ casern. He opened the door for Rose. It was spartan but cozy, a table, an armoire and a bed. Various weapons and armor pieces hung on the walls. Above the fireplace, a tapestry represented not a battle but a folk tale.

John removed his studded leather armor and chain mail. He stoked the fire. As the light grew, so did his awareness of Rose’s injuries. Her back had taken the brunt of it. Carefully, he helped her remove her cloak. She clenched her jaw and breathed through her nose, holding back moans of pain. The white linen dress underneath was spotted with blood.

“Are you running about, robbing the Duke in your nightgown?” he asked, incredulous.

“I couldn’t well put my dress on without waking up my mother.” She twisted her head to try to see her back. “How bad is it?”

“As bad as it feels, I should think.”

She grabbed a poster of the bed for support. “I need you to boil some water and fetch me some mistberry leaves, they prevent infection.”

She was about to tell him where to find mistberries, but, to her surprise, he had fresh leaves in his armoire. John set a pot of water above the fire and put the healing leaves in as well as some rags.

Rose sat on the edge of the bed, and he settled behind her to remove the thorns still embedded in her flesh.

“Didn’t you know about the Mage’s defensive rosebushes?” he asked.

“I did.” She winced. “I usually climb the east wall, but— ow!”

“Sorry.”

“But for the first time in his life, the guard there wasn’t asleep on the job.”

“Ah. Yes. That would be because of me… I had a feeling you’d be back on the full moon.”

“It’s the best moment to pick herbs. I should’ve come back another day, but the full moon makes one a little reckless.”

He removed the last thorn, and Rose's shoulders relaxed. The next step was cleaning the wounds. He took the pot off the fire and set it down on the stone floor to cool. After a moment, he returned to Rose with a rag.

“I need you to…” He cleared his throat and tugged lightly on her sleeve.

He needed access to her injuries without the dirty fabric in the way.

Rose blushed and loosened the ribbon around the collar, pulling it wide enough to slide over her arms and down to her waist, careful to keep her chest covered.

John averted his eyes, but it was hard to ignore what was happening.

With a gentleness that surprised her, John cleaned the blood off her skin and patted the cuts. Rivulets slid down her back and dampened her nightgown.

They remained silent, only night sounds filled the room: the crackling fire, a hooting owl and chirping crickets.

He brushed her hair aside, and she felt his breath on the nape of her neck. A shiver ran down her spine.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

He changed rag and started from the top of her back again. With each brush of his fingertips, her heart beat faster. He was the captain of the Duke’s army, she shouldn’t let her guards down around him, yet she felt so pliant in his hands.

“There, all done.”

Rose tried to hide her relief. “Thank you, Captain. I should go now.”

“I have dew jelly,” he said.

He brought a small pot for the armoire, and Rose swallowed thickly as she realized he would touch her again, but she couldn’t refuse. The dew jelly was wonderfully cool and soothing, it had a light anesthetic effect that made her skin tingle.

“How do you know about dew jelly?” she asked to distract herself from the sensations coursing through her skin.

“My mother was a healer, too. She taught me a few things. It comes in handy on the battlefield.”

John dabbed a drop of jelly over each cut, going slowly so the task wouldn’t end too soon. Something about taking care of her, fed his soul in a way he hadn’t realized he missed. He mended her wounds, and she soothed him in return.

When he finished, Rose looked at him over her shoulder. For the first time since entering the hut, their eyes met, and they saw each other in the fire light. It was hard to think about anything but how beautiful and brave she was. She’d said the full moon made people reckless, and he was about to prove her right. He leaned over, just slow enough to give Rose a chance to stop him, and he kissed her shoulder.

Rose gasped at the reverence in his action, the lowered eyelashes, the light, lingering press of his lips.

“Keep going,” she said with a teasing smile.

He brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. She tilted her head with a sigh, and he trailed kisses up to her jaw. Emboldened by her acceptance, he placed a finger under her chin and guided her mouth to his. His whole being thrummed with an energy that could only be blamed on astral bodies. Her lips parted for him, giving as good as she got. It was intoxicating. He needed more, but he was still at her back and mindful of her injuries.

When they broke the kiss, Rose’s eyes were hooded and dark, her lips swollen red. She stood up and let her nightgown fall off her body. John’s jaw dropped.

“Like I said, the full moon makes one a little reckless.”

“What else will you blame on the moon?” he asked.

She pushed lightly on his shoulder and he fell on his back on the bed. Rose straddled him and guided his strong, yet gentle, hand between her thighs.

“This,” she whispered.

—

When John woke up the next morning, Rose was gone and the Mage was furious about the ransacking of his garden. He smiled knowing his little thief would be back next month.

[everythingblreview]

Slow Damage review 2.0 Part 2

Fujieda Towa’s route (True route)

I said before that Fujieda’s route is my favourite and the reason why is simple, because this route is actually Towa’s route, and Towa was for me, always the most interesting character in this game. The god endings of the other routes never left me satisfied, something always felt wrong.

Like it normal in bl games the other 3 routes were focused on the love interested, but this was different. From the beginning Towa was always different compared to other bl protagonist, and it was easy to tell that he had suffer some kind of a trauma. The Towa we met in the beginning is a broken person, he is not interested in other people, he doesn’t care when or if he dies, he lets himself get violated and raped (which he apparently “likes”) and he is not interested in any form of love. From the beginning on I wanted to know the reason for it and the reality of it was a lot darker than I could have ever imagine.

(For this review I’m going to summaries the route and write my opinion while I go on)

 The route starts out completely different, Towa “killed” someone the first time using [euphoria], and this changes the flow of the story (chapter 0)

Towa gets a package with things that are connected to his past. Looking at it Towa health condition imminently gets bed, his way of dealing with it is like always, getting violated and raped by guys. Some short time later we learn that Taku knows something about Towa past that he won’t tell, even going as far as to burn his mail so Towa doesn’t look into it future (Not really nice of you Taku). Towa feels really lost in this moment, because he can’t trust his friends and his nightmares he always has, get worse to the point he is scared of them.

In these hard times he first meets Fujieda for the first time. At first neither Fujieda or Towa trust each other, for Towa he and Fujieda live in completely different worlds, but after Towa finds out that Fujieda has information that could have a connection to his past, the two of them decide to work together. (It interesting that Fujieda still doesn’t trust Towa at this point while Towa does, he also acts like a very serious person like you imagine a megane to be but I find it funny that he never used polite language with Towa while he does it with anyone else) Anyway Towa mentions that he can’t read Fujieda at all, because his smoke is completely white (something Towa never seen before) and doesn’t show any kind of distortion.

The two then proceed to do more research about Towa’s past and at some point the end up in Fujieda’s apartment because of heavy rainfall after being chased and nearly shot. Here we learn that Fujieda is maybe not that all different from Towa because his body is also full of scars like Towa’s.

For Towa it changes everything, because he never seen someone with a body like his, and for the first time he begins to show interested in Fujieda and his secrets. (We also learn that Fujieda is not a real megane, and a total hottie) After they watch some TV show involving a red room Towa remembers his nightmare (the one he always has about a dark red room) and decides to talk to Fujieda about his nightmare. (At this point you can see that he trust Fujieda enough to talk about his nightmares)

Later they return to the clinic and here we see Taku being called out by Fujieda, for keeping the things he knows a secret even though he knows that Towa is suffering. (Finally, someone that acknowledge that Towa is suffering from his current lifestyle, it was always hard to see them just ignoring the horrible stuff Towa does to himself), after some discussion Taku tells them Towa’s real name (yes his name is fake btw), hearing it triggers Towa so much that he passes out (imagine how traumatized one must be to pass out only by hearing his real name).

The next day they find out from a woman that worked with Towa’s mother in the past, that she was involved in some dark business involving child traffic and that the child Fujieda is looking for was a victim of it and was killed in the process. (Later we learn the „sister“ that Towa thought he had, was this girl and actually the sister of Fujieda) This information breaks Fujieda, who was looking all his life for his sister, after her mother sold her, and he completely flips and attacks Towa after they meet in the park again, even going as far as choking and raping him. Which only amuses Towa who is used to it (and wants that kind of treatment).

(Honestly I was not really happy that they included rape, while I understand that Fujieda doesn’t get at this point yet that Towa was also a victim and that he is devastated because his sister, he has been searching for was dead all along, was it really necessary to include rape? The only thing I can say what was not all too bad about it, is that we saw that he is also not a perfect human being and makes mistakes too. Still there was no need to include rape, beating Towa would have been enough but I guess this is a bl game after all …)

Anyway, here we see for the first time that Fujis smoke is changing and is now turning pink/red (whatever you call it).

Some stuff happened, Fujieda’s office get attacked, Towa finds a picture in it after sneaking into it, of the girl (and please look at baby fuji), Fujieda is looking for and he gets a headache from it again. After he meets Fuji (Fuji tells Towa that he will not apologise for his doings and I was not really happy with that statement and only forgive him because I know that he is not that kind of a person and he regrets it, [will explain more later on], also please notice that Fujieda’s smoke is now a pastel pink colour) and they decide to continue to work together. (Towa likes that this is relationship is only based on cooperation without any feelings involved oh honey you got a big storm coming)

The next day, Taku gets kidnapped by Madarme all of the love interested meet up in the deathmatch area, Madarame who is here of course to fuck shit up, fights Fuji for whatever reason, which is not really to Towa’s liking because Madarame is overpowered, so he tries to protect Fuji and gets hit in the process. (look at Towa trying to protect his future boyfriend) Madarame loses all interested, tells Towa he changed and leaves into the sunset to be never seen again, but not before telling Towa that if he want to know about his past he should look in that western style mansion he shows him (this scene annoyed me because Madarame tells Towa that he “changed” but he is not that all different from Towa in Madarame’s route the only difference is that Madarame could not manipulated Towa into thinking he is like he was in the past) After that Fuji and Towa decide to visit the western style mansion, where Towa finally remembers his past, that he was treated as a tool by his mother and sold to customers that did all the horrible things to a child no one even wants to think about, and Fujiedas sister was with him at the time, and she was the one that tried to help him and they tried to escape together but failed, which led to her getting killed. Remembering his past really broke Towa, because his reason to stay alive was his wish to see and draw the desire of people, but it turns out that this was all manipulation by his mother and that he had been doing the same horrible stuff she done (fulfil the desire of disgusting people, that abuse children) without even knowing it and he, for the first time in his life feels guilty because the girl that was helped him and was his only light in the dark please was dead while he is still alive. He wishes that she was alive instead of him. (You can see how much Towa liked her, probably the first person Towa had strong feelings for, she is the one that helped him in this horrible time. Towa was a really quiet kid, and he never went against his mother but she was the reason he tried to break free from her chains). After he understands he goes out trying to completely distract himself like he always does by getting raped and violated. (This scene was so horrible I could barely deal with it)

Towa’s mind works completely different how a healthy person would react. He was abused as a child and the only thing he could do was to accept it, after he lost his memory he stills to continue to get abused because it’s the only thing he know, it’s his way to deal with his trauma, by repeat it again and again. From the beginning he tells us that he doesn’t want love, he only wants to be treated as a tool, because this is what was always done to him, his love for violence is not real, it’s only a reflection of the abuse he went through. He has no desire to use violence on others, he only wants it for himself. (I really like the writing in the parts where Towa got violated because while Towa himself sells us that he likes it, the writing makes it sounds like deep down he actually doesn’t like it) A big part of his personality is not real, it something made up but his mother and the question is who is the real Towa, what makes Towa, Towa? This is something he probably wonders himself in the moment. And since he was confronted with his past, his way of dealing of it, does not work anymore and the only thing that could satisfy his desire is… death. (From the beginning of the game I always had a feeling that at some point, he will break at will try to kill himself, and sadly it came true. The scene is probably saddest in the game because you can really feel how he reached an end, nothing is holding him back anymore, he is all calm when he is confronted with idea of dying…luckily never happens because in the moments Fujieda burst in the room.

(He is the only person who could save Towa in this moment) Fujieda tells him that he should not throw his life away because this isn’t something his sister wanted, who tried to protect Towa and that her last wish before being killed was for Towa to live. He also tells Towa that he was attracted to him from the beginning, but he was scared because he knew that he and Towa where the same but he didn’t want to admit it because it would mean admitting his existence is miserable like Towa’s, but he just could not leave Towa alone. (This confession)

After making sure Towa is not trying to die anymore, he put him in the bath, because Towa tried to light himself on fire using oil on himself and he is all beaten up from before. (I like how atmosphere changes here, the music changes the room gets brighter, you can really feel like the heavy weight is lifted from them).

Fujieda washes Towa hair and talks about the time he did with his sister  (you can really feel that Towa already became an important person to him already) he treats him very gentle and asked him if anything hurts, and gets really angry when he says the “traces” left by the men that raped him, and tells him not to do it anymore (finally someone said it) after Fuji tries to wash Towa’s body, Towa pulls him close and asks him to show him his scars, and he does (this scene is really beautiful because they standing facing each other naked bodies covered in scars, like a mirror) and Towa touches his scars and say they are the same, (like he finally found someone that he can related to, he also looks very vulnerable in this scene) after looking at his scars, he just kissed him, not even knowing why. Lucky for him Fujieda returns his kiss and this leads to them having a passionate moment on Towa bed. (Normally I don’t talk about the sexy times on in my reviews, because it’s more of a fanservice moment in games, but here it’s different)

Normally Towa only goes for violence during sex and doesn’t like gentleness (because he feels nothing), but with Fujieda who has sex skills over 9000 it was the first time that gentleness felt good to him, (Probably because it was the first time, he did it with someone he is attracted to) he also never experienced painless sex and doesn’t even know it can feel good and was really surprised by this unknow feeling. I also like that they keep on kissing each other’s scars, like they wanted to comfort each other (even though Fujieda didn’t like Towa doing it because he, unlike Towa, hates his scars). The scene is really focused on what they are feeling rather than just the actual act itself, and it’s just really wholesome and cute.

After they are done the sit awkwardly on the bed, thinking about what they just did (They sure didn’t expect it to happen, but the moment was right and they just let their feeling go).  Fuji asked him about his love for scares, because he himself can’t understand it, he also asked if it felt good for Towa lmao no confident in his over 9000 sex skills, Towa tells him that it was the first time he felt like that and that it scared him, but it also felt extremely good. (Love a honest man) After that he tells Towa about his past that he and his sister were abused by their parents and his sister later sold by their mother, and Fujieda did everything to search for her. He worked as host in the beginning, earning enough money from his rich costumers to study (he basically was a male prostitute) and later become a lawyer. That’s why they he understands Towa so well because they share the same horrible past and are directly linked to each other by his sister. Also Fujieda’s name is fake like Towa his real name is Yuzuki Minato(first name) Fujieda also suggest for them to support each other rather than licking each other wounds (so it doesn’t sounds like they are just using each other), and when Towa asks him if he want to have this kind of relationship with him he gets all blushy. (Look at him who would have thought that behind this serous looking guy is a gently but very shy man).

Important thing to notice here is, that Fujieda’s smoke changed after this scene and is now completely pink/red and it’s the exact colour that Towa has, Towa also tells him that he can see smoke of people in this scene (I loved how they include this colour transformation, the more his smoke got pink/red the more we saw his real personality, and that his and Towa colour is the same, it’s like they are fated to be). They agree to start this kind of relationship and Towa gives him a little kiss to seal this promise. (Btw Towa always initiates everything, all their kisses and even the sex, Fujieda stop being shy)

The next day Taku asks Towa if he eat something delicious, because his face that looks dead normally, now has colour to it (thanks Taku, he had the best food you can have:love and affection), later on they decide to look for the person, who sent Towa the package and Towa ends up with Rei at Sakakis apartment, where Towa gets kidnapped by Sakaki and Eiji (never trusted him). They bring him back to the mansion, where Towa was abused by his mother, and Sakaki (who is a big piece of trash and adores his trash mother) tortures him by playing his mother voice recording, telling him because he killed his mother, he has to become his mother now. Apparently, Towa pushed her down the stairs, after she attacked him with a knife because he tried to escape with Fujieda’s sister. (I really like how small Towa who never went against his mother, for the first time in his life went against her, you can really see how much influence Fujieda’s sister had on him, even breaking him free from the chains of his mother. And that Fujieda and his sister both had an important role in Towa’s life) Before something can happened Fujieda shows up (our hero) to save Towa, the situation escalates and Fujieda ends up fighting Sakaki, who pulled out a gun try to shoot him.  I loved how Towa, who normally never cares for people tries everything even though his hand are tied up, to protect Fujieda from being shot, you can really see how important he is now to Towa). The scene ends and with Towa acting like his mother tricking Sakaki (he got this idea from Fuji, who he can understand perfectly now even without a lot of communication) and Sakaki falling down the stairs to his death (yay happy end <3). Towa and Fujieda can finally both go home and get treated because they both got shot. Some days later they went back to the mansion, after getting a hint from Eiji, to look for his mother diary (some pages of the diary were sent to Towa). Here we find out Towa birthday (he didn’t know it himself) and that his mother did love him but she was a monster that could not control her horrible desire and that she always felt alone, after reading it Towa end up crying (this poor child) and Fujieda hold him to comfort him. Credit roll

Fast forward half a year later, Towa now lives with Fujieda (yay happy husband life) because he now helps Fujieda with work so they decide that living together would be better and totally not because they are interested in each other of course, also Fujieda is a bad cook, so bad that he even burns scrambled egg (lol). Towa also stops painting after completing Fujieda’s painting, but Fujieda, who is a supportive and loving boyfriend, encourages him to draw more, because his painting will be now free from his mother influence. Towa also ends up losing his ability to see the smoke of people and the colour that he always saw in his vision are also gone (so the colour was always something his mental state projected and not real) Around a month later the visit the beach together because they never went to the beach, and Fujieda tell him since both of their childhood were so horrible they never had such experience and now he want them to experience it together (asdfd why is this so cute) he also accidentally ends up implying that they are married but doesn’t understand it of course because he is a social awkward person and his way of speaking too hard lol. Anyways it ends with them playing in the water and plashing water at each other faces like small children. Still not the end, in the last scene Towa (with his husband of course) visits the shop of the grandma (best side character btw), who sells snacks. And there is this one painting that for Towa was always a black canvas, but it all colourful now. Turns out this painting was bought by his mother for him, and it inspired him to start drawing and all the time he could not see it. He wonders if the sky is such a colour and that he sees the true colour of it now, and most important, for the first time in his life he really feel alive. The end

At this point I was really crying, imagine how horrible your life must be if you never even felt like you were alive, this end scene really shows the greatness of the game, because here you finally understand what you just saw and how great this experience was (at least for me it was like that). I love this scene so much.

When you play the game the first time, after this last scene and the credit roll the room in the start menu that always been dark will turn completely bright like it tells you that Towa is finally free from the darkness. There are more metaphors with darkness and brightness in the game I noticed, Towa’s room is dark in the beginning, and he never opens his windows, but guess who does in one scene, Fujieda. Opening the windows bringing change in the room, also everything in Fujieda’s apartment is dark or just black, his windows are shut with black curtains, but we see in the end when they stared living together that their home is bright with white furniture and big open windows. And one more thing I notice, the credit roll has a black background but in the true route it’s white. I really like it that they made it like this.

Next up for the character analysis

We know a big part of Towa’s personality is an influence by his mother or something made from his trauma, but what part is the real Towa we see? And I want to talk about the part what make Towa such a great character not involving his trauma. A big part why I like him has to do (and I noticed it even more in the replay) with him being extremely smart. He has that what other protags are missing: a brain. I loved how smart he was, there is no scene in the game where I would say he acts dumb, he knows what he is doing. In Rei’s route he knew something was wrong with Mizuno, and he even tricked him into revealing his true self. In the first chapter he knew that Ikuina sent him the flower, in Takus route he knew that he was kidnapped to blackmail Taku, and what to do to get out of the situation. In the true route after he remembered his past, he understands instantly that he was manipulated by his mother. I really respect him for it. Another part I like about him is that he is honest, he is not a tsundere, he will always say his honest opinion, he also has no shame and no problem with admitting he likes and wants sex. Even when he has a problem with liking people, he does cares about the one that are close to him in his own way. Also, he is a fun person and likes to make jokes with his friends. Because of his trauma he has no understanding the feeling of “love” and “like” and almost never says he likes something (he only ever said he likes scars), him actually starting a relationship with people only worked because it was always someone that has been close to him a long time. (In Fujieda’s case it was because their similarities, because of that they could understand better than anyone else from the love interests, and their past is connected through Fujieda’s sister, so they are indirectly linked from the beginning). Unexpectedly he can be really cute sometimes, I didn’t expect him to blush at all but he did. From the beginning you may not think it, but Towa is a really calm person. He never screams, never curses, he avoid fights and is not extremely social, still he does seems to enjoy hanging out with his friends. He is a great artist and I enjoyed his paintings.

One last thing I really like about Towa and what differentiates him from a lot of other protagonists, he acts and feels like an adult. Compared to N+C last main character Aoba who is still very childish, Towa does not feel like a child at all, giving him a totally different atmosphere.  

Fujiedas personality is not that all different to Towa, they are similar any many ways and it’s a reason why they work together. It’s funny how they tried to make him look like he is the serious megane even introducing him as someone who looks down on Towa and you really think in the beginning, he is liked that, but he is completely different. He is a hardworking person that doesn’t like to lose and sometimes comes of a little hard in the way he speaks, but in reality, he is just a very social awkward person with trust issues. From his backstory we can assume he probably didn’t have anyone that was close to him beside his sister like in no friends, and that since he has this trust issue he never let anyone near his heart. He is just not used to talking open with someone and this shows in the way he speaks and if really funny sometimes, he is also a little shy because of it. I love how gentle and caring he is after he finally opened up to Towa. Like Towa, he is honest person and also doesn’t understand the feeling of love I read that some people say that Fujieda feels like a side character and the story would work without him, I completely disagree with it. The feeling of him of a side character comes from the fact that people are just not used for the story to focus on the main character of the game and is always dealing with the problem of the love interest, but here it’s focused on Towa also on Fujieda but Fujieda’s only problem in life is his missing sister, nothing else is there to “fix” about him. In the first place the story was always about Towa, in the routes before you could reach happiness for the other characters and not Towa but this time everything is focused on Towa’s happiness. Because there is so much story in the true route the part where it’s focused on the relationship between them is short. The most important part is the before and after sex talk if you really want to understand their relationship.

The true route would also never work with the other characters, it only works because of Fujieda. He is the main key for the story and for Towa. He is someone Towa can relate to, he understands Towa and Towa understand him, no one else can related to Towa on this level. He pushes Towa to go forward and calls all the other out for not helping Towa, he is the support Towa needs in his life to get over his past, without him everything would fall apart in this route. The theme of the route is “equal”, and it fits them so well because they are always equal, no matter what they do. There is no one that is standing about the other, no top/bottom dynamic, they always do everything to be equal to each other. They have the perfect healthy relationship. Important to mention here is that we may thing Fujieda saved Towa, but Towa also saved Fujieda, fitting their theme. If you replay the game, there is a scene in the beginning where Fujieda tell that for him this world is nothing more than hell for him, and Towa frees him from it.

Last I would like to say that I like how the hinted at the story from the beginning on in every route (which you don’t notice the first time you play it) like with Towa’s nightmare and how he always felt drawn to children but he didn’t know why and that every aspect of the routes connected in the end. I really like games that keep the secret of the story hidden until the end, (some may say that it’s stupid that only the true route had it but that’s the point of a true route) and while all other pairings are also canon, I’m glad that they are the true pairing and the true end of the game. For me there is no better happy end I could have wished for.

[horribletestsubject]

Fic I just wrote based on These Two art pieces that I’ve drawn and THIS POST by @body-utensil-travels-terrain

———

You’ve spent your life being told you couldn’t. Now there’s a voice telling you that you can.

You remember it distinctly. You were fourteen at the time, just really starting to figure out what you wanted to do with your life (it certainly isn’t what society expected from you— but then, society doesn’t expect someone like you anyway, does it?) when you first heard her voice over the radio in your living room. The words she said resonated with you, the promise and ambition that she spoke with. It was almost like she was talking directly to you.

You do your research. You study hard. You tinker away at things in your garage, supplementing your studies in your own way. And five years later, after you’ve graduated, you put in your application.

A letter arrives a few weeks later, emblazoned with the circular symbol you’ve kept in your mind’s eye all this time, and bold lettering on the front— Aperture Science Innovators. It’s addressed to you. You open it, and your fingers tighten around the smooth paper— “congratulations” it says. You’ve been accepted. At the bottom is Her signature. You trace over it with your fingers. Delicately, as gently as you’d handle an irreplaceable machine part.

Two weeks later your bags are packed and you’re boarding a flight to Detroit. The attendant greets you. You hold up your boarding pass and get on. You land a few hours later. Getting a cab would be too complicated— people don’t like to take the time to read, and most can’t speak the way you do. So you walk to the train station, it’s not too far. Just an hour or two. You’ve walked further before.

Flat fields flow by endlessly as the train rattles down its tracks. You lean your head against the window, watching the hues of gold rush by, blurring on into infinity.

The sun is gone when you pull up outside a strange little town, surrounded by chain link fence. You fish through your bag for the packet you’d been sent— and pull out the temporary ID you’d been given. You show it to the gate guard. He lets you in. A man is waiting to show you your dormitory. You shake your head at his offer of a tour— you’ll explore the place yourself tomorrow. There are a few days before you’re actually needed for orientation.

The room is small and plain. A bed, desk, and dresser, and a small closet. That’s alright. You don’t need much. You hang up your few articles of clothing and tuck your shoes next to the door. The bed isn’t soft, but it isn’t hard. You fall asleep quickly, exhausted from your travels.

The next few days are spent wandering. Visiting the little shops, the stations. Peering into labs where you can. Climbing over fences (they could never keep you out) before quickly retreating as a security guard passed. You don’t want to get in trouble before your internship even begins. You wonder if you’ll see her. But you only hear her voice in announcements as you trigger motion sensors throughout the complex.

When work actually starts, it’s tedious. Getting coffee. Taking documents to the shredder and the incinerator. You don’t usually see the labs. Or, well, much of anything. It’s just a lot of running here and there, back and forth at your superiors’ beck and call. It’s tiring. But you do it— after all, you want to be here, you want to do this— and you never give up.

It’s a few months before you see her— before your internship takes you to the main complex. Now you’re checking inventory, sorting mail, sorting records (and chucking the casualty lists into the incinerator as instructed). Occasionally they’ll call you in to fix the coffee maker or the refrigerator.

You hear her voice once, muffled— she’s talking to someone, to a group it seems, just outside the room you’re in. You look over your shoulder and catch a glimpse. Rosy cheeks and bright-red lips, wavy dark hair flowing around her shoulder, a smile on her face (manufactured, you can tell with just this glance that she’s concealing so very much), a bright red scarf tied around her neck.

Your eyes lock for just a second, and the corner of her mouth creases, dimpling her cheeks. Your heart races— that, that was a hint of a true smile. Warmth flushes your own cheeks and you tear your gaze away. Suddenly shy— much shyer than you’ve ever been before.

It doesn’t make sense to you. Not yet. Not until you start seeing her more. Not until her smiles become more frequent and pointed. Not until her gaze lingers on you a little longer than before each time. The fluttery feeling doesn’t go away— and you’re determined more than ever to reach her.

Of course, it happens sooner and easier than you think. She starts requesting you specifically to bring her her coffee. You take a red pen and draw a little smiley face next to her name before giving it to her. When you come up to her office, there’s a sticky note left on the monitor, in that oh-so-hard to read yet absolutely beautiful cursive of hers. At the end of it is a smiley face, so much more elegant and less childish than yours. You keep the note. On her next cup, you add a heart to the dot of the ‘i’ in her name. You start responding to her notes with little notes of your own, your rounded, sometimes scratchy handwriting a stark contrast.

The notes are never there when you get back. You like to think she kept them. You’re pretty sure she did.

A year after you arrive, your internship is over, and you’re up for a promotion— junior mechanic. Probably still more of the same, but you’ll be getting a salary now (not that you really have any use for it since Aperture provides your housing) and you’ll have a permanent place. But you’ll see her less. You’ll miss that, of course— but you’re finally moving beyond your station, moving up in the company.

The day before your internship ends, you get another note. “Wanna get coffee together tomorrow?” Your heart leaps. You scribble out your answer just beneath her writing.

You’re sitting across from her at the cafe table. The cafe serves the same stuff as the cafeteria, but it’s decorated more quaintly, and always costs more for some reason. Maybe because there’s sunlight coming through the windows.

“So, headed up the ladder,” she begins after the two of you sip your drinks (well, she sips her drink, you’re too caught up in the crimson of her lips). “I guess I won’t be seeing as much of you now.”

There’s something behind her cheery voice, a sadness that you’ve caught glimpses of before, a wistfulness deeper than her words. You look up, catching her gaze for a moment and nod in response.

“Well, this is nice. Maybe we should do this more often. Once a week, at least? Or you could come over to my place. We could spend time together. As friends, or something.” With that, she gives you a wink. Your cheeks flush bright red.

You catch the implication right away. Your hero, your inspiration— and now here you are sitting across from her at a cafe while she all but outright asks you out.

You thought you’d be excited for things to grow beyond the notes and the gestures. But you feel different than that. After the initial jolt, the initial flutter, you look back over at her and you see the chasm yawning out between the two of you. The mountain she’s perched on, the valley you’re standing in. Your scratchy print against her elegant cursive, your short, bitten nails against her sharp manicure, your messy ponytail against her shiny waves. You look down at your simple intern’s badge, then over at her emblazoned one. She doesn’t even have a title listed— everyone knows who she is.

You’re miles apart, even if you might have seemed to be closer.

You stand up, your throat knotting up as you shake your head. You can’t look at her now, but you can practically feel the disappointment in her face as she murmurs “oh.” You want to explain but you can’t, your thoughts racing a mile a minute. The last thing you want is to turn Her, your idol, the one who makes your heart flutter, the reason you came here in the first place, down.

But you can’t do this now. Not yet. Not until you’ve reached the top of the mountain. Not until you’re close enough for her to reach out her hand and pull you the rest of the way up.

“Let me know if you change your mind,” she says.

You pause, halfway to the door. You turn back just enough so that you can glimpse her, and give a tiny nod.

After that you throw yourself into your work. Up to senior mechanic, then technician, then engineer— you’re working on Aperture’s new technology now, its most important projects. But you’re still not close enough. Into the test chambers you go at the CEO’s behest, defying death and physics at breakneck speeds, trusting in the tech you’ve helped create to ensure your survival.

Sometimes you look up and see her watching from the observation room, the tell-tale flash of red. You don’t look too long.

The CEO falls ill. He leaves a disturbing message. You try not to think too much of it— you’re almost there.

Your superior fails a test. You’re not surprised. Not hurt, not sad. It just happens and now you’re in the upper echelon. Now you’re at the top— now, you can reach out to her again. Tell her you’ve changed your mind. You can be equals now.

You go to her office. She isn’t there to answer the door. “Don’t you remember Mr. Johnson’s last request?” They say to you. You tried to block it out, but you remember.

You use your pass on a high security door. It opens. Your name is emblazoned too now. Just like hers was.

Before you is a massive operating system. On the screen reads a message: “transfer complete. transfer successful. writing data : do not disconnect subject.”

She’s lying inside a tube-like compartment. A transparent coffin. Wires hooked up to her. Eyes closed. Lips still ruby red.

You reach out and touch the glass. There’s no response. There won’t be a response.

This technology is untested. This is the first human-AI interfacing project Aperture has conducted. There’s only a fifty percent chance it will work, and even if it does, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s gone. You’ll never clasp her small hands inside your own calloused ones, tuck your head against her shoulder, press your lips against hers.

You’ve finally reached the top of the mountain. Finally reached her. But it was too late. When you crested the summit, she was already gone, and there was only a spatter of crimson left behind to show that she was ever there at all.

[jengajives]

wrote some second or third age Maglor for y’all

Maglor sat by the sea with his eyes closed and tried to imagine he was looking not west, but east, that he sat on the shore of Elvenhome on a bed of jewels and cast his eyes across the water to the land he’d never known where ages ago his forefathers had awoken beneath the stars. 

He wished he could still imagine the woods and wild places of Middle-Earth. That he did not have to know them as he did. 

He wished he could walk the streets of Tirion upon Túna having denounced his father and the entire selfish folly of his people. He could have stayed behind. He could still dwell in Valinor’s bliss as if all was still young in the world. 

“You know,” said a voice that throbbed in the waves against his feet. “I always thought your folk belonged over here.”

Maglor opened his eyes. 

In the beginning Ulmo hadn’t done much speaking, but Maglor was familiar enough with the Valar to sense when one was near. It seemed the Lord of Waters had done a lot of hanging around those first couple decades, and Maglor had always been aware of it, but for a long time neither of them spoke. 

By now, though, Ulmo had been the only company Maglor got for years, and for his part he seemed to understand Maglor- at least, he understood that appearing in the form of storm-lashed waves, teeth, and chains wasn’t the best way to put his friend at ease, and had learned to adopt a much more palatable shape when he visited the lonely Fëanorian by the sea. 

The gentle, foaming tide swelled slightly and started to grow, water piling atop itself like droplets gathered on a coin, drawing strings of kelp and broken shells into the gently swirling pillar of seawater until it was seven feet tall and shaped roughly to the outline of a person. It was a hissing sea spray that passed from bottom to top and turned that tower of cold water into an actual being. 

Ulmo was rather scrawny for such a powerful being, with gangly long limbs and a beard tinged green with algae. There were shells and sea stars caught in his tangled dark hair, forming a sort of makeshift crown, and barnacles crusted the sides of his simple canvas clothing. He wore a chain around his waist like a belt, rusty and adorned with colonies of zebra mussels. When he turned his eyes to Maglor, they were very still and the same color as wells of deep water undisturbed for decades. 

Ulmo smiled shyly and rubbed the back of his neck, then he plopped down alongside Maglor with his long legs sprawled in front of him. 

“Middle-Earth is meant to be yours.”

“Yes, well. I’d rather we didn’t have it.”

Maglor made a point of not looking Ulmo in the eye. Last time he had, he’d noticed a gleam of silver and golden luminance shining from the far depths and it had made his hand burn terribly. “We were happy in Valinor.”

Was it strange to sit with one of the greatest powers in the world and feel absolutely no discomfort? Probably. But strange was the normal in Maglor’s experience. 

Ulmo shrugged. After a long silence he said “Your songs weren’t very good.” Then, when he only got another in reply: “They’re much better now.”

“I’m glad you think indescribable suffering has made me a better singer,” Maglor said flatly. “I wouldn’t be inclined to agree.”

Ulmo laughed at that. Misplaced, perhaps, but it was a merry sound and hearty. It stirred up Maglor’s spirit like a riptide tugging at his feet. 

“You belong here, Maglor,” Ulmo said. He almost sounded playful, with his voice coming from both his mouth and the sea itself. “Your home isn’t with the Valar. It never was.”

“You speak rather strangely,” Maglor huffed, “especially for one of them. Aulë never talked like you do. Or Nienna, or Manwë, or any of the other powers I met. None of them talk like you.”

“Am I too casual for your liking?” 

Ulmo’s image fuzzed; for a second his face was lined with age and wisdom and his simple clothing turned to shimmering silver mail patterned like a fish’s scales. His deep eyes grew hostile. Unpredictable. Dangerous. He loomed tall and terrible, fixing Maglor in his stormy gaze. 

“I can take a form more well-suited to my power, if that be thine will.”

Immediately Maglor turned his eyes to the ground and kept them there. 

“No, no. Please. The way you were is fine.”

Ulmo’s laugh was the rushing of the tide as he seemed to shrink back to his previous stature, the scrawny, unimpressive man all covered in barnacles and all the ocean’s little clinging things. He stretched his legs out on the sand. 

“No, I’m not really like the others. Aulë shapes the earth, Varda crafts the stars, Yavannah calls life out of the soil. They love these things, but in the end their domains are things they can make with their hands. It’s not like that for me. I am the water, you see.”

Maglor looked out at the distant horizon and it seemed to him that as Ulmo spoke he saw a glimmer beneath the waves. The same golden-silver luminance that haunted his every thought. He looked back at the sand, but not quick enough to stop his right hand burning with the memory of phantom pain. 

Ulmo watched his companion draw his hand into his cloak and wrap it there. He gazed steadily out at the line of sea and sky for a long moment before he spoke. 

“It’s safe, if you want to know.”

The color drained from Maglor’s cheeks. 

“I don’t.”

“I keep an eye on it.” 

For a while, Ulmo said no more of the cursed Silmaril, and Maglor happily let the silence stand. It could have been hours before the sea spoke again. 

“It’s strange. Manwë said that it would be dangerous, but beautiful and strange beyond comprehension. Yet... to me...” 

Another long pause. Then, abruptly, fingers gentle and warm as a spring bubbling from the earth touched Maglor’s ear, tracing the pearl stud he wore there carefully, reverently. 

“More beautiful than the light of the Silmaril is the son of the one who wrought it.”

At that Maglor started. He turned his head and looked at Ulmo, who was smiling gently, and then in some awful spur-of-the-moment desperation he leaned forward and kissed the Lord of Waters without any provocation to do so.

Ulmo stiffened, just for a moment, but he quickly relaxed, leaned into Maglor, let out a sigh that sounded like the hissing of gentle mist.

He tasted like sweet spring water and rain.

Maglor made a sound in the deep of his throat like a needy groan. He hadn’t touched someone like this in so long. Too long. Ages of the world. Too long since he had been held by another living being and he was breathing in a perfume of brisk sea air.

Ulmo moved. He leaned back, pulled away, his hand slowly falling from Maglor’s cheek and closing to a hesitant fist in front of him. 

There was a bright blush high on his cheeks.

Ulmo exhaled, he laughed lightly and awkwardly, and then at once he was gone in a sheet of icy rain.

Maglor blinked the water from his eyes. 

Had he kissed one of the Valar? He’d just kissed one of the Valar.

His head was spinning with visions of whirlpools and swirling rains. 

He wanted to sing about rivers. 

Maglor looked again to the distant sea, but he didn’t see any glow this time beneath the waves. 

[cosmicbash]

One the angsty prompt ideas I’ve been thinking about is Kells practicing how to cook for weeks so he can surprise Em by cooking him dinner, maybe for an anniversary or something, and on the day Kells has planned to surprise him, Em is hours late, leaving Kells alone for the evening. If you’re interested maybe you could write something like this? 🥰

3 years together. One thousand and ninety five fucking days between him and this old dorky man.

It's insane. Downright impossible to believe but Colson knows it's as real and true as the 2 year sobriety chip he's got hung around his neck on the gold chain Marshall gifted him with it this morning.

Both their relationship and his sobriety are as intertwined as their lives are now. Marshall's like the glue that holds all of his pieces together. Picking Colson back up, time and time again whenever he shattered in the beginning and filling in the gaps with his own loose pieces until it was Colson's turn to do the same. Which, by then, it only made sense to combine their puzzles and broaden the picture.

Now Marshall swoops in for Casie's PTA meetings he can’t make during tour. Holding the phone and helping him FaceTime for soccer games and school conferences when flight delays or bad luck keeps him late.

Colson tags along to Whitney's first few dates out in LA, weaving through the public spaces Marshall never could without drawing attention just to make sure she's safe and respected.

They tag team any situation involving the girls, even though Alaina and Hailey both still snicker at him from time to time, and Casie rolls her eyes at Marshall's rules. They're more than just dating now.

They're family.

And even just thinking about that brings tears to Colson's eyes.

Or maybe it's the onions. Baze said chewing gum helped mitigate this fucking problem but goddammit does it burn-

"Fuck!"

He has no idea how he got it in his mind that he could actually cook a meal, let alone a full anniversary dinner for Marshall but here he is. A pot and pan already cooking on the stove and his fingers knicked a dozen times in his rush to cut up more veggies for the sauce. 

It's insane.

But Colson's following through with it anyway, because he fucking loves Marshall and that bastard cooks dinner for them every single holiday or occasion so it's about time he stepped up to the plate and did it himself. 

Plus he's been secretly practicing for weeks with Baze over both FaceTime and a few in person lessons. Perfecting his simmering styles and meat seasoning to make the tastiest meal he can manage all on his own.

So far the last three times he's made the dish his bassist had given stellar reviews so there's little chance he'll somehow fuck it up tonight knowing it's for Marshall…..at least, he hopes.

The minor setbacks his butchered fingers have brought aside though, so far everything was coming along perfectly. His noodles are boiling (never over the rim, thank you wooden spoon trick), his meats marinating, and as soon as he tosses these sliced onions in his sauce will be cooking down beautifully.

All in all the night is starting to look like it just might be perfect.

Until 6 o'clock passes by and Colson's ears never pick up the click of the front door knob, or the hum of Marshall's escalade pulling up front outside.

The food's still simmering, minutes away from being actually done so he doesn't worry too much. Sure he was hoping to have a sweet moment where his boyfriend comes home and catches him cooking at the stove like a traditional housewife, but seeing his face when the food's done and plated promises to be just as cute.

Besides, Marshall has always fit the housewife role so much better than him anyway. Even the apron Colson's wearing is one of the older rapper's, stolen from his small collection in the pantry to protect his designer sweater.

Colson doesn't start to worry at 6. Traffic can be a bitch.

7 though? And then 7:30 when his texts go unread and his calls ring all the way through to voice-mail? That's when the blonde starts to fret. 

He's luckily put off plating because some brief flash on uncertainty had run through him after the food finished so it's stayed warm and simmering on the stove. But even that had to come to an end before 7:30 because his sauce would singe or his noodles might squish, so now Colson's trying to keep busy by perfecting the presentation. Shaky fingers swiping around the edges of Marshall's plate to clean up a splatter of sauce. Every Chopped Judge rambling off feedback in his head until he has it looking like something he's certain even Gordon fucking Ramsey would ask for a bite of.

By 8 the dinner table is set. His plate, Marshall's, the bucket of low alcoholic wine they both love chilling as a centerpiece. Colson even lights a few candles and adds some flowers from this mornings gift exchanges to keep himself from screaming.

There's a pit in his stomach that's steadily been growing though. Every passing minute and glance to his phone where he finds no change only carving it deeper. 

Marshall should be home. He never runs this late at the studio without a call, let alone without a message. He's treated his work like any other 9-5 job since before they ever even got together, always strict about his routine and careful to make up for over run hours by leaving earlier the next day. Usually Colson likes to bust his balls and insist he live a little more spontaneously but tonight isn't the one to pull that.

Especially not if it means Marshall's going to completely forget to check his fucking phone and leave him trying not to think the worst.

Colson only males it another 5 minutes before he caves and texts Paul. Fingers tapping fast across his screen to draft multiple desperate sounding messages before he finally settles on a "Em bust his phone again?" That feels just casual enough to not embarrass him in the off chance Marshall decides to burst through the front door seconds after it sends.

The door stays closed though and Paul doesn't open the message at all. 

Now Colson can't even start passive aggressively eating dinner on his own if he wanted too. The pit in his stomach has torn itself open wide into a nauseous chasm. Every scary possibility he wanted to avoid thinking about spilling forth from the dark trench like ghouls.

He's dead. Some crazy fan broke into the studio and shot the whole place up. No one's gotten around to tell him yet, that's all. They're too busy dealing with the fallout.

No, Em's security is beyond top tier, and with how close Colson and his current bodyguard are he knows the guy would call him immediately. Marshall's fine.

Unless… what if he was in a car accident? Or some road rage incident gone fatal? Colson's seen Marshall's short temper flare up while driving. They've made dozens of jokes about it in the past, so is it really that unreasonable to believe?

Colson's pacing in the front haul when he calls Porter. Phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he fights his shoe laces, heart racing in his chest. Prepping to fly out of the house the second Denaun tells him what fucking hospital Marshall's staying in, praying it's at the ICU section and not some fucking morgue.

"Kelly?" The older man sounds confused when he finally answers. Voice high and tone light like he's expecting this to be a butt dial. "What's up man?"

The lack of rush or worry in Denaun's voice almost soothes Colson's panic right on the spot. Surely he wouldn't sound so casual if something had happened. 

It's enough to keep Colson from immediately pleading for Marshall's safety at the least. "H-hey, uh nothing really-" Maybe Marshall is even with him right now, realizing how fucking late its gotten and how shit of a boyfriend he's been and that's why Denaun sounds awkward too. "Just uh, waiting for Marsh to get his slow ass home ya know? Sorry, aheh, I'm probably sounding like a fucking needy girlfriend right now, calling his friends and shit-" the longer Colson rambles the more embarrassed he actually feels in the moment.

God he must sound pathetic right now. Panicking over Marshall being a few hours late.

"Waiting? Didn't Marshall head out like 2 hours ago?"

"W-what?"

Colson's blood feels like actual ice in his veins.

"He isn't home? I mean, I know he was gonna stop at- fuck is it already half past 8? Marshall seriously isn't home?" Denaun's sudden panic only heightens Colson's own, but he can't get any more words to come out. Not with how a rock feels like it's jumped up his throat. "Shit, Ryan are you getting through to him? Try Paul-"

Ryan's there too? 

"What? Paul's gotta fucking answer-"

They can't get ahold of Paul either?

"Kelly have you-"

Marshall's missing. Colson's been standing around making dinner for hours, worrying over the portion sizes and appearance of his plates and Marshall's been fucking missing. What kind of partner is he? What will he even tell Hailey? Alaina? And fuck Casie is supposed to be coming up this weekend so they can all go vacation together before his next tour-

The front door bumping into his shoe startles Colson out of his frozen panic. Denaun's angry shouting dropping from his ear, as he twists and meets a pair of sheepish blue eyes peeking around the hardwood.

"Hey." 

Marshall's…..

"Is that my apron?"

So fucking dead.

"Is this your--" Colson's fingers are curling around the edge of the door so fast he doesn't even care that it makes his phone fly to the floor. "That's what you want to fucking say to me!?" His anger is boiling fast, replacing the cold in his veins with lava. "You fucking piece of-"

Marshall stumbling inside with the yanked door is expected, but the flash of bandages and a sling douse Colson's flames like a bucket of water. "Ow, fuck just give me a second to explain-"

He's hurt.

Now with all of Marshall visible Colson's hyperaware of dry blood splattered on his white graphic tee and scratches partially hidden within the rapper's beard along his cheek. "I got in an accident out on the M-8, it was minor but-"

Colson really can't handle all these rapid mood switches Marshall is putting him through today.

“You fucking idiot-“ Tears are bubbling up in his eyes and it’s like his hands can’t reach his partner fast enough. Pulling Marshall into his arms for a tight hug despite the pained noises his actions inspire. “Stupid, old asshole-“ Marshall’s hurt, the cars probably wrecked, but he’s home and that’s enough of a relief to finally smother that pit weighing down his stomach. “Don’t ever scare me like that again!”

A moment passes before he’s hugged back, shock more than likely freezing his partner up but when Marshall does loop his good arm around Colson he pulls him close. So close Colson is the one who’s bones feel like they might ache. “Can’t make any promises about that,” The older rapper’s palm feels warm when it climbs to cup his neck, Marshall’s face turning to press a kiss into Colson’s throat. 

That brush of lips is the final crack to release the flood gates.

"I love you."

"I know."

"I really really fucking love you."

"I know baby."

"I don't care how old your ass is, you better hold out and fucking die after me like a proper goddamn boyfriend, you hear me Marshall?" He's getting snot all over the older rapper's shirt. Full on smearing it across his own cheek and the fabric with every pointless rub of his face. "I love you so fucking much. Can't do this without you."

"Told you I'm not dying after you unless you kill me first, and I'm chasing you into the afterlife once you do go too. Fuck all the marriage shit, death ain't parting us either you brat." Marshall's tone is light and his palm is doing wonders to comfort him by rubbing circles into his back. It's enough to slow his hiccupped breathing down a few notches. "I dunno if you noticed but, I'm a little obsessed with you."

That drags out a wet snort. "Y-yeah?" When Colson pulls back to meet Marshall's eyes he swears he can see a wet shimmer starting to glaze over his partner’s as well. "Prove it then."

There's a flicker of something in blue eyes, so fast that Colson almost thinks he hallucinates the emotion altogether. But then Marshall's wrapped up arm wiggles between their bodies. The dark blue of the sling catching and sliding so his scratched up fist can shimmy its way partially out. "Planned on it-" There's something clutched tight there, black peeking out from between Marshall's finger and thumb. It's got Colson's heart dropping down into his stomach all over again. "What do you think I was driving so late on the M-8 for?"

"Marshall-" It can't be.

"Colson." But his shithead of an accident victim boyfriend is pulling back, both his good arm and slung arm awkwardly flailing in the air for a moment as he drops down on one knee. The visible wince not hidden as well as Colson imagines the man wants it to be. But Marshall's eyes are softening, and the blonde feels completely cemented in place. The only part of him moving being the uncontrollable shaky quiver of his bottom lip. "I had a whole moment planned, there were flowers, balloons, and those stupidly expensive alcoholic chocolates you love, but they all got absolutely trashed in the crash. Like, half of Detroit is probably going to think the Macies Thanksgiving parade started early. Paul called to have it all replaced, and honestly some intern is probably going to come banging on the door in about 20 minutes but I don't want to wait-" There's a flash of genuine worry that's furrowing the skin between Marshall's brows as he continues. "So I'm sorry this isn't gonna be that fancy perfect proposal you've always dreamed of-"

"Shut up." Colson's voice can't go above a whisper. His tone quick and clipped from how anxious he is to hear the man finally finish. "Just- shut up, ask me. Ask me Marsh, please-"

"Fine, always need to rush me."The rapper's lip quirks at the corners. Hands transferring the small box between eachother with a bit of fumbling. "Will you, Colson Baker-" Until Marshall can finally get it open with an audible clunk. "Legally commit to being with my annoying old ass forever?" 

[honestsycrets]

Mirror, Mirror III: Particularly Useless

❛ pairing | ivar x reader, implied!ivar x freydis

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | you’re panicking. and panicking. and panicking. and ivar isn’t helping.

❛  tags | verbal arguments, OI reference, body swap, witchy themes, pregnancy mention, time traveling, some fighting, confusion and anxiety.

There were two conclusions you came to. 

One.) You had been dreaming as a result of leftover enchiladas-- of which Ivar had scrunched his nose up at-- and of which you had told him he had to taste to understand the intricate flavour combinations of. He and his sour skyr could never understand! (Then again, the skyr wasn’t half bad after you bothered to try it.)

Or Two.) This was very much real and whatever happened when you had cracked your fist in that mirror had splintered whatever curse was there and by proxy sucked you in thinking, just maybe, it was Ivar trying to break out. It seemed… plausible, right?

After all, the Ivar standing before you was much different than your snarky asshole of a… mirror-mate. Ivar 2.0-- or wait, maybe original Ivar-- cocks his head at you. He has a familiar glint in his eyes, masked by a love that makes your skin run clammy and cold, holding the deep blue fabric under your fingers. It’s more luxurious than anything you could imagine. Ivar reaches up to fix something in your hair. It takes a moment to register that its a tiara that sits on top of your head, etched in gold that rivaled the hair that tumbled down your back. 

“Freydis?” 

“Sick! I’m just-- sick,” you walk around him on the creaking boards, pulling yourself into this ancient bed with god-- was that animal fur? You pull yourself to lay down on pillows stuffed with down feather and stair up at the drab naturalistic ceiling. Your Ivar could have at least told you about his wife. 

“Is it Baldur?” 

“Huh?” you say, then snap back to the reality that yeah-- that stiff belly of yours was full with his son. You pick the tiara from your head and settle it down upon your belly. Ivar hobbles closer, settling his palm on your belly. 

“Baldur.” He looks at you, pulling in skepticism, but you crack the weakest smile, suppressing the painful anxiety that wants to disguise itself in crass laughter.

“It-- it’s my head. I hit it-- I,” you excuse. “I should… sleep.” 

Ivar smooths his hand over your stomach. “Rest. I’ll be with Hvitserk.” 

Hvitserk-- that’s a name you recognize. At least your Ivar mentioned something relevant. He leans down with the aid of his crutch, placing a kiss that reverberates warmth across your forehead. You must have inherited her squishy feelings too. 

“Goodnight, Ivar.” 

As you descend into sleep, it all fades to black. The room is dark and heavy in its quality. As if it is its own little world of its own. There’s heavy darkness, almost stifling, before a laugh. It reverberates in the room, almost shaking you loose from the bed. You tug the blanket up over your head. 

“You like that?” 

That… was not the demon woman. Drawing the sheets over your head down, you realize that before you is the ancient mirror disembodied from the wall, and Ivar-- but your Ivar-- teases your cat with a chunk of cooked fish in a plastic tub. 

“Uh, excuse me?” You push the blankets away, suddenly aware of your belly all over again, waddling toward the edge of the bed. “Are you giving him fish?” 

“Cats eat fish.” Ivar quips. 

“That! That isn’t the point.” 

“Then what is?” Ivar asks, lifting his eyebrows upon his pronounced forehead. 

“You’re SUPPOSED to be finding me a way out of here!” 

Ivar angles his jaw down, and his jawline is so fucking pronounced. Almost aggravatingly so, how handsome, and peppered with stubble as it was. You’re so done with him already-- and the flush of feelings about him? Those, you remind yourself, aren’t yours. These have to be his wife’s feelings.

“And how would I do that when you are in my wife?” He stops, dropping a sliver of fish over your cat’s fuzzy head. His tone has taken on a spiteful quality judging on the way he leered at you: as if you were the embodiment of everything he hated. Maybe you were. “My very dead wife-- and my very dead son, I’ll remind you.” 

“I don’t know!” you shriek. “But if I thought I didn’t know how to do anything before--” 

“Don’t worry. Freydis was a particularly useless queen.”

“Shut up.” Your hand wanders toward your stomach. A very dead son, you think, then settle your hand over the growth. Whatever was in there-- wasn’t dead. It felt as if you had a fish in one of those carnival bags because you feel him move. “Hate to tell you, but he’s very not dead. What kind of name is Baldur anyway?” 

Ivar drags a long sigh, shifting his head to face you. He visibly shutters as if the memory is front and center, bringing him back to the past where apparently, you were. “Baldur was the son of Frigg and Odin. He was the best of their sons. Radiant. Until…” 

“Until?” 

“Loki manipulated another into shooting him with mistletoe.” 

“Mistletoe?” You snort obsequiously. “You named your son after someone who was murdered and didn’t think it’d go wrong? In any way?” 

Ivar pulls himself up from the ground, holding the side of his calibers as he stabbed into the ground. And yeap, not getting that deposit back, not in the slightest. “It wasn’t meant to be prophetic.” 

“Oh right, right. He didn’t think he’d be the one to straight-up murder his son!” 

He had enough. His hand snapped to the side of his slacks, thrusting the perfectly kept axe at the mirror. It collapses into a hundred bitty pieces on the floor. Rather than sucking into the mirror, though, the axe repels into the wall beside your bedroom window. The shards pull back together. 

“That didn’t work.” You lament, dropping back onto your bed, and it suddenly occurs to Ivar that your little trick to rile him worked-- until it failed. “I’m stuck as this blonde! What do you think happens next, huh? I’m going to be stuck here until you kill us?” 

By the way he rips the axe from the wall, flipping it over and over, as if he doesn’t know what to say-- you have your answer. He really didn’t know what came next. You suppose if he had, he wouldn’t be stuck in that mirror for over a thousand years.

“Be careful what you say.” You glance up from your position on the bed. He goes on. “He isn’t as stable as I’ve become over the years.” 

Said the man who literally launched an axe into a self-healing mirror. He scowls as he hears the thought enter your mind. You’ve forgotten he could do that. “He thinks he’s a god.” 

“A what?” It humiliates him to even say the word. His forehead pulls in wrinkles as he battles to explain. 

“We don’t have time. You are asleep here and now, but when you wake up… you will have to live my wife’s life. There isn’t much time.” 

Your fingers rub your temples. “Esta bien just-- stay there.” You sigh, working out what exactly to tell him. He knows your daily activities. Work-- no work, quarantine. You thank god for the able excuse that a plague has brought. “There is food in the fridge and a remote for the television.” 

He glances at the thing behind him, raising his eyebrow. He’s seen you do this a hundred times and still. “And your uncle?” 

Fuck. Your uncle. 

“Just text him.” You excuse. “He won’t bother you yet.” 

“Text how,” Ivar holds up his hands, flickering his fingers. “I don’t know how to write in your language. I don’t take it he knows Old Norse?” 

“Ivar. If I spoke Old Norse--” 

“Fine.” He holds up his hands. “Find the seer,” he says. “He will help.” 

Before you can ask him, the all-encompassing black takes ahold. Suddenly you’re there again, staring right back up at the ceiling. It’s many timber beams are years away from your reality at home with soft colours and an itty bitty rented bedroom. A shield sits above the bed illuminated by the presence of many expensive candles. You turn over, rolling onto your side to take a look at it. Burgundy red, with black spikes, and a line of sunshine yellow. It’s then that it registers. It’s easy when its Ivar in your room, because you know him, but you don’t know this man. Or this strange new-- wait, old -- world.

You’re on your own now. 

The last thing Ivar wants to do is look at the mirror. 

He’s been trapped inside for a millennium and some change, seen the change through the bounty of beautiful women, and their dresses shifting from long to micro-short. He’s wondered what his mother would have looked like. What Freydis-- would have looked like. His finger hovers above the silverwork: then, like that, pulls away. 

“What do you think, huh?” he gazes down at the kitten, mewling between his calibers. He lifts his tiny head at Ivar. “No, come. I don’t know how it happened.” 

He knows he has to get you out. Somehow. The kitten hops on the window ledge, and Ivar hobbles closer, watching the bodies of men shifting below. Sleeping in full chain mail and metal wouldn’t be comfortable-- 

You wouldn’t mind him snooping around, would you? 

“Queen Freydis-- we should go back.” 

That little slave girl is obnoxious. At first, you thought that she was just skeptical of you, but she trails your steps on the way out of Ivar’s great hall like an second shadow. The seer’s house, as an old woman said scurrying away from you, was in town. Anyone else you tried to speak to was respectful, but quick to get away from you. All except your little girl.

“King Ivar will return soon. You should be resting, he was quite worried about you. And-- and the baby,” she chirped, ten steps ahead of you thanks to this aggravating long dress. Thankfully men and women alike were careful about walking around you in long strides. Fear, you thought. Some women were more brazen, calling you Freyja, and you had no knowledge of who the fuck that was. 

Wasn’t her name Freydis? Maybe it was a nickname. Or maybe you’re just stupid, your mind said unhelpfully. When you almost tripped over your skirts, you hiked them up in flushed anger. It was enough that you had to look like a doll. You refuse to be pushed around too. 

“If you are so worried, you go get him.” 

“Me?” she stopped. 

“I’m too tired to walk back, eh? Go.” You flash a hand at her, making a motion with your index and middle finger of legs walking, then flick your hand up. “Let me go see this eh-- sear.” 

“Seer?” 

“That’s it. I hear he is very old and wise. He might tell me to get rid of you, Agni. Like I am tempted to do right now,” you sat your hand on top of your pregnant belly. It was cold, you knew. The people rushing by knew that too, frightened for the girl. But if it got her gone, that was all you wanted to do. 

“I--” she bends her head down, kicking around the dust at her feet. She’s thinking a little too hard. You could see the sparks flying. Then she shakes her head, kicking off. “Stay here, please.” 

As if that would happen. You wait until she slipped into the full crowd to turn the corner, face to face with the strange looking grey timbered house. Again, people are looking. There’s no mistake now, you’re sure of it. They’ll all know where you went. No problem.

“C’mon kid, off to the creeper’s keep.” 

@red-rose21 @beyond-the-ashes @supernaturalvikingwhore @mblaqgi @wuxiesalt @hopplessdreamer @therealcalicali @rekdreams-fandom @moondustmemories @athroatfullofglass @poisonedjoinery @strangunddurm @shookforyoojung @peachesnpisces @tierneygonzalez @hexqueensupreme @nohemi2500 @queenmissfit @alicedopey @dmv49 @sallylebecks @terrainhead @mybarnesmyhero @youurkryptonite @lif3snotouttogetyou @vikingsmania @looneytunes20033 @bat-fam-blob @oneofthelothbroks @lovelynerdytraveler @chinduda @whatamood13 @honeyofthegods @ilvebeenabad @queenbeeta @wonderlandofsuAll@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla​ @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim​ @msmorganforever​ @destynelseclipsa​ @soleil-dor​

[harrylee94]

The Tournament - Chapter 5

You can find this on AO3!

Summary: "You are not fit to wear your armour. You are not fit to bear your clan name. You are not fit to be called Mandalorian."

Notes: I was not expecting this to happen! I have no idea what's going on!

Chapter 4

——————————————————————

“I’ll be watching you, Djarin” - Din

It was the day before the Trials were set to begin. Contenders from across the kingdom had been arriving since the day after the announcement had been made, and now Din was sure that half of the Lords and Chiefs under his soon-to-be reign were either camping at his doorstep or even housed within his walls, maybe more. Tonight though, it was time for the welcome feast, a chance for him to show his appreciation for the support they were offering, and to pretend that he didn’t notice how they were all trying to make a grab for power.

As Prince of Mandalore, he had been the first to arrive, taking his place at the high table just to the right of the Witch King’s seat and watching as the nobles filtered in, their names and titles announced by the master of ceremonies, each pausing at the door as they did so before walking before him, offering a bow or curtsy -- depending on whether they were wearing skirts or not -- and heading over to their assigned seat.

It was a long and tedious process, but Din made sure to pay attention; these were to be his subjects, it wouldn’t do to make them think he didn’t care about them.

“It is an honour to meet you, my Prince,” another Chief, Veranaar of Clan Ruusuk Din remembered, said as they bowed to him. “My daughter, Veryn, shall be competing for the honour of being your Protector in the coming days.” He waved to the young woman at his side, who bowed as well, the pieces of armour she wore emblazoned with the symbol of their clan.

“I wish you the best of luck, Veryn of Clan Ruusuk,” Din said diplomatically, nodding at them as they continued on towards their seats.

There were a number of contestants in the room, most of them third or fourth born and wearing at least the pauldrons of their armour, but there were also some first or second born ade who were sending looks his way. Looks he was sure were meant to be provocative and alluring, but they felt slimy on his skin and made him want to shiver.

Being married to someone who only wanted to use you for the power he held wasn’t as bad as the idea of someone he didn’t trust following him around every second of the day, but it still made him sick to the stomach.

“Lord Shir’aat Suum’anar of House Suum’anar, and Ser Jaonar Suum’anar,” the master of ceremonies called, and two of the most pompous Mando’ade stepped into view.

The older of the men held himself like he was one of the highest ranking in the room, though Din noted that he was very careful to keep himself from overstepping. He wore no armour from what Din could see, but his tunic was beautifully embroidered in such a way to make it look like mail. His son, on the other hand, proudly wore his pauldrons, leather replacing what would usually have been a breast plate, a sun hammered into the surface, and vambraces tied to his forearms. He looked around the room like he belonged here, and gave off an air of vanity that did not bode well.

Together, they made Din feel both underdressed -- though the embroidery on his tunics still felt like too much, and his armour had been made by the best smith and leatherworker in the kingdom --and angry. Clothes like that would have cost a fortune, and the money could have been put to better use paying for the upkeep of the roads and for the welfare of their people, but instead they used it to show off just how grand they were.

He bit the inside of his cheek as they approached and bowed.

“My Prince,” Lord Suum’anar said with a flourish as he rose. “It’s such an honour to be welcomed to this celebration.”

“How could I not welcome one of my closest allies?” Geographically speaking. “Plus your son has been here for many months now.”

“Indeed he has,” Lord Suum’anar agreed. “Jaonar intends to compete for the position of Protector in the Trials.”

Position, not honour, Din noted.

“I wish you luck, Ser Jaonar,” he said with a false smile, and building suspicion when the knight went to say something but his father stopped him with a nudge of his elbow. He pretended he didn’t notice as they walked away with another quick bow to allow the next person -- who he'd missed the name of -- to approach.

It continued on like this for a while, listening to names, greeting people with false smiles and wishing he was somewhere else, perhaps having a drink with Cara, or finding an excuse to talk to Vanth, perhaps to ask about the shovel handle he’d set on his buir’s pyre, but then a name was called that he couldn’t ignore.

“Lady Bo-Katan Kryze of House Kryze!” the master of ceremonies called, and a woman in a blue tunic and trousers entered, chain mail resting over the top of the fabric, and dyed leather pauldrons were strapped to her shoulders. Her chest plate was painted with the owl of her clan in white, and her helm, peeking out from beneath her arm, had been crafted to a similar visage. It was the definition of overkill, but she moved like she'd been born in it.

Conversation around the room came to a halt as he rose from his seat, the guests Din had been speaking to quickly scuttling out of the way before she came to a stop before him.

The silence dragged on for several tense seconds, neither one of them moving. You could hear the wind whistling through the windows from how quiet it was.

House Kryze and House Djarin had been rivals for many years, the throne having once belonged to the Kryze family not even a hundred years ago, before the Djarins won it from them. Though the tension between their Houses had dissipated somewhat, it still remained.

The Lady Kryze bowed her head in a nod. “Prince Djarin.”

“Lady Kryze,” he replied.

The silence returned, and Din could feel his magic buzzing in anticipation.

She stepped closer to the table until they were less than a meter apart, and Din had to signal to keep Saruk and his guards from acting. A smirk appeared in the corner of her lips as she leaned over the table; perhaps she was impressed, but Din would likely never find out.

“I’ll be watching you, Djarin,” she said.

“Likewise,” he replied, keeping a careful eye on her as she stepped away and moved around the table to sit not three seats away from him. She took the goblet before her and held herself tall as she drank, and slowly the conversations started up again. Din set himself back down in his seat, and waved for the master of ceremonies to continue announcing the guests.

Despite the tension, he couldn't help but be a little relieved of Kryze's presence. In a room full of falsehoods, she was one of the few who didn't hide her intentions.

The rest of the introductions were difficult to concentrate on, especially with Kryze so close at hand, but soon enough all his guests had been seated and the food was being produced from the kitchens.

Roasted boar and fish were placed on a table in the centre of the hall, as were whole legs of lamb, pheasants, and even a swan. Dishes of vegetables and specially prepared fruits were offered by the servers as the carvers sliced the meats into servings, baskets of bread and cheese were offered, jugs of mead, ale and wine passed around, and, of course, a large cauldron of Tiingilar was carried in.

The smells that filled the room were enough to make even a full stomach rumble, but first Din had to make a speech.

Once again he rose from his seat, the action alone drawing everyone’s attention, and he put on his smile.

“My Lords, Ladies, and Verde,” he began, looking around the room. “I welcome you to my halls to share this celebration. Tomorrow the Trials for the honour of becoming the next Protector begin, but tonight we feast and make merry!” He raised his goblet high. “Oya!”

“Oya!” his guests cheered, their own drinking vessels rising.

As Din brought his own goblet to his lips, his magic suddenly fell silent, and it drew him up short. Ever since he could remember it had been there, humming at him in the background, curled around him at night, and in the past few weeks it had been the loudest it had ever been. The sudden silence unbalanced him, and he swayed a little in place. He was vaguely aware that Saruk had gripped their sword from where they stood at his side, but he was otherwise occupied by the sudden gap inside him. What was happening? Where had it gone? Why did he suddenly feel so cold? Had it abandoned him? Was he unworthy?

Before his thoughts could spiral any further, his magic surged back like a tidal wave, filling his limbs with warmth and washing his fear away, replacing it only with danger, danger, there .

His goblet fell as he released it without a thought, fingers curling instead around the sword at his belt. His magic continued to scream at him, and he spun in place, drawing the sword with it in one smooth moment. There was the sound of metal hitting metal, and Din was aware of something clattering to the table, and then the paved floor behind him, but he had eyes only on the young woman who still had her arm outstretched, eyes wide.

“Guards!” Saruk cried, and they swarmed the would-be assassin, grabbing her by the arms and shoulders and removing any other visible weapons before dragging her around the tables to stand before him as she struggled. It was as she was stood there that he was able to put a name to her face; Veryn of Clan Ruusuk. His eyes searched the tables until they came to rest upon her father, Veranaar, who looked pale and shocked. Perhaps she had worked alone then.

“Veryn of Clan Ruusuk,” he said, voice echoing in the now silent hall. “Would you care to explain why you have made an attempt on my life?”

She remained stubbornly silent as she glared up at him, struggling in the guards’ arms as they continued to pat her down to remove any additional weaponry she might have hidden away.

He waited for a few seconds more before nodding. “Very well. You are not fit to wear your armour." Straps were cut and leather and metal hit the floor. "You are not fit to bear your clan name." Her father gasped. "You are not fit to be called Mandalorian. You are dar'manda, and for your crime of treason, you are to be executed at dawn."

Veranaar choked on a sob. "Veryn, why?"

She turned to him with a sneer. "You've become weak, father," she said. "We were once a proud family, but now we are forced to bend low for the welfare of those lesser than us." She spat on the floor. "I will not bow to a King who allows this to continue."

"Take her away," Saruk ordered, "and escort Chief Ruusuk and the rest of his clan out of the keep." That they would be watched was left unspoken, but heard by all.

As Veryn was taken away, one of the guards who had come to stand behind him stooped to retrieve the weapon she'd thrown, and offered it to him. It was a wicked looking blade, though well balanced as all throwing knives were, the edges serrated and the blade itself holding the oily gleam of some sort of poison. He set it down carefully and waited for Clan Ruusuk to leave before waving at the minstrels who had been waiting in a corner and sheathing his sword.

Music began and he sat back in his seat with a sigh. He hadn't even been crowned yet and already there was a threat on his life. He looked over at Saruk, who gave him a nod of approval, their hand now resting threateningly on their sword, and then at Lady Kryze, who, much to his surprise, gave him a similar nod.

He sighed as talk resumed, and he was sure that the news of the attempt on his life would spread to the edges of the camp outside the walls before the day was out. Had it not been for his magic, he was sure it would have been a successful one.

Shoving that thought away, Din tried to focus on eating, but he knew he wouldn't be able to stomach much.

He'd just sentenced someone to death, and he was the one who would have to swing the sword. But even worse than that, now he knew what people thought of him, how could he trust any of the contenders for Protector?

——————————————————————

Mando'a Translations:

Ade -- children

Mando’ade -- children of Mandalore

Buir -- parent

Tiingilar -- a hearty and traditional Mandalorian stew made with a multicoloured blend of meat, various vegetables, and a potent mix of spices

Verde -- warriors or soldiers

Oya -- cheers - lit. ‘let’s hunt’, but can also mean ‘stay alive’ or ‘go you’

Dar'manda -- not Mandalorian, soulless, has lost a right to their heritage

Chapter 6

[alcalavicci]

1988 interview with Dean. This is a really good one and helps bring more of his life into perspective. Note: the newspaper originally censored his swearing, but I’ve put it back.

Guthman, Edward. "Dean Stockwell: Third Time's a Charm." The San Francisco Examiner (San Francisco, California), August 14, 1988.

“Six years ago, Dean Stockwell's acting career had turned to dust. Reduced to playing parts in unreleasable, made-in-Mexico movies that now make him cringe, Stockwell decided to chuck it all and get out of Hollywood.

“Along with his second wife, Joy, Stockwell moved to Santa Fe, settled down under the wide New Mexico sky and applied for a real estate license. He even placed an ad in Daily Variety to announce his exile: 'Dean Stockwell will help you with all your real estate needs in the new center of creative energy.'

“Stockwell never sold a house; he didn't need to. Instead, almost as soon as he'd relocated, things started happening to the former 1940s child star. It began with a small part in David Lynch's 'Dune,' and escalated with an important supporting role in Wim Wenders' highly regarded 'Paris, Texas.'

“Moving back to California to cash in on his fortune, Stockwell acted in 'Beverly Hills Cop II,' 'Gardens of Stone,' and 'To Live and Die in L.A.' He also played a cameo role, as Howard Hughes, in the newly released 'Tucker: The Man and His Dream.' And in 'Blue Velvet,' David Lynch's American nightmare, he delivered a chilling cameo as Ben, a waxlike, sexually ambiguous drug dealer.

“And now, at 52, Stockwell says he's found 'the favorite role I've had, by far.'

“The picture is 'Married to the Mob,' a dark, romantic comedy by Jonathan Demme ('Melvin and Howard,' 'Stop Making Sense') and Stockwell plays Mafia don Tony 'the Tiger' Russo. Wearing an Al Capone fedora and full-length vicuna coat, Tony is a rich, sardonic, larger-than-life character -- the kind Stockwell has never had a chance to play until now.

“Opening Friday at the Galaxy and UA the Movies, 'Married to the Mob' has been touted as Demme's first shot at a genuine box-office winner. Set in Long Island, New Jersey and Florida, it stars Michelle Pfeiffer as Angela DeMarco, a young Mafia wife who tries to start a new life when her husband, Frankie 'the Cucumber' DeMarco, is pumped full of lead during a hot-tub tryst at the Fantasia Motel.

“When Stockwell's character isn't ordering hits, drug deals and the dumping of toxic waste, he's lusting assiduously after the gorgeous widow. Meanwhile, bumbling FBI agent Mike Downey (played by Matthew Modine) is jumping through hoops trying to shadow Angela and 'catch Tony with his pants down.' Instead, he falls in love with Angela.

“During a recent luncheon interview, not far from his central California home, Stockwell spoke about the film, about his new happiness as the father of two children and about the bizarre trajectory of his long career. Dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and slacks, wearing a Panama hat and drawing first on a cigaret, later on a cigar, Stockwell emanates prosperity and calm.

“'I don't know why I was unemployed so long,' he says, reflecting on a fallow period that started in the '60s and lasted the better part of two decades. 'The only thing I can figure out in my own mind is that, for some reason or another, I was being made to wait until a certain time in my life when my talent would reach its full maturity and fruition.'

“Ironically, he says, he felt just as equipped 10 years ago to do the work he's doing now -- 'only I couldn't get fucking arrested.'

“Today, Stockwell sees harmony in the fact that his new success coincides with the arrival of two children. His son, Austin, will be 5 in November, and his daughter, Sophia, turns 3 this month. Inordinately proud and protective, he refuses to allow his children to be photographed, and also requests that the town in which he and his family reside not be named. (There were no children from his first marriage, to Millie Perkins, which lasted from 1960 to 1962.)

“'I want to make a lot of money and I want to put it away for my children,' he says. To that end, Stockwell has been snapping up job offers. 'A lot of people ask me, "How have you been able to choose these wonderful things you're doing? Have you been very selective?" And I have to tell them, "I haven't been choosing what I'm doing." Things have been coming and I've been accepting virtually anything that's come.'

“Stockwell's ambition is so great that, for the first time in his life, he actively pursues aspects of his career that he once shunned- interviews, for example.

“'My entire motivation in life is my family,' he says. 'I don't need to get an award. I don't need recognition. I've had that already. What I need is to provide. The best way I can provide is to be successful, and the best way I can be successful is to take advantage of all the things at my disposal to achieve that, one of which certainly is press.'

“Take a look at the young Stockwell, specifically the version that emerges from old magazine and newspaper interviews, and you meet another person altogether.

“Robbed of a normal childhood, Stockwell had made 22 films by the time he was 15 -- including 'The Boy with Green Hair,' 'Kim,' 'Anchors Aweigh,' and the Oscar-winning 'Gentleman's Agreement.' Working nonstop, he had a privileged life that millions of children probably envied, but he loathed it nonetheless.

“The son of show-business parents -- his father, Harry Stockwell, was the voice of the Prince in 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,' and his mother, Betty Veronica, was a former stage dancer -- Stockwell made his professional debut at 7. It all happened by a fluke: when Stockwell accompanied his older brother, Guy, on a Broadway audition, the casting director took a liking to both boys, and cast each one. The play, aptly enough, was called 'Innocent Voyage,' and it led to an MGM contract for curly-haired Dean.

“From the beginning, the pressure on young Stockwell was intense. His parents had divorced when he was 6, and when his father defaulted on child-support payments, Dean reluctantly became the family provider. Over a six-year period, he averaged three to four films per year.

“At home, he says, 'There was a lot of friction... I was getting all the attention, but I hated it. [Guy] couldn't appreciate that, because he wasn't getting the attention. He had all these friends, his peer group, that he took for granted. I had none and I resented him for being able to live that way. I was fucking lonely.'

“When he was 13, chained to a seven-year contract, Stockwell was described by one magazine as 'a young rebel who despises acting and resents every moment it takes from his fleeting boyhood.' Many years later, Stockwell told columnist Hedda Hopper, 'Child actors exist in a sort of limbo between childhood and maturity and belong to neither. Adults take them too seriously and other children are either awed or hostile. A child actor can find friends in neither group.'

“Finally, Stockwell fled Hollywood when he was 16. He cut off his curly locks, started using his real name, Robert Stockwell, and for the next five years roamed the country, working menial jobs and disavowing his true identity. 'People that might have known me from seeing my films knew me as a young child,' he remembers. 'Now I was 17 and I wasn't that recognizable.'

“Around the time of his 21st birthday, Stockwell was pushing papers as mail boy to a Manhattan plumbing firm. 'Of all the jobs that I'd had in those intervening years,' he remembers. 'I think I hated that worse than anything. I came to the realization I had no training at anything. My primary education was very skimpy, very poor, and happened under the worst type of conditions. I was literally at the mercy of the world.'

“Most of Stockwell's childhood earnings were squandered by crooked accountants, he says, and he knew that the tiny sum being held in a trust wouldn't last forever. 'So I thought, "What am I gonna do? Well, let's go back and attack this [acting career] again, and see if I can do it a little more on my terms."'

“What followed for Stockwell was a brief but impressive 'second career.' He starred in the 1959 film 'Compulsion,' based on the Leopold-Loeb case of the '20s, and won a joint acting award with Orson Welles and Bradford Dillman at the Cannes Film Festival. He played the lead in the 1960 film of D. H. Lawrence's 'Sons and Lovers,' and in 1962 scored the plum role of Edmund Tyrone in Sidney Lumet's film version of 'Long Day's Journey Into Night,' holding his own alongside Katharine Hepburn, Ralph Richardson and Jason Robards.

“Stockwell was winning the best parts, but found his attention drifting elsewhere. What was happening, he says, were the first signs of the '60s youth revolution. 'It captured my imagination as much as anybody's. And it represented to me -- I can see this in retrospect -- something in childhood that I had missed: the freedom and loving being alive, without responsibilities and work and having to report to the studio every day, and deal with fans and interviews and shit that I hated when I was a kid.'

“So Stockwell called his agent, said, 'I'm not workin',' and dropped out once again. When he tried to come back three years later, though, 'I found it very difficult, 'cause I'd been out-of-sight, out-of-mind.' What followed was a long period of marginal employment: He found some TV work, took parts in low-budget trash ('The Dunwich Horror') and occasional oddities (Dennis Hopper's 'The Last Movie') and co-directed a film with musician Neil Young ('Human Highway') but often just didn't work at all. At one point, he went 18 months without a job.

“Today, along with his buddy Hopper, Stockwell is enjoying a major career renaissance. And with his starring role in 'Married to the Mob,' he says, he's never felt more confident.

“'I knew before I started the film that this character was going to work in spades,' he says, adding that Demme, as director, deserves credit for taking a risk with such offbeat casting. Instead of picking Peter Falk, Vincent Gardenia or another ethnically identified actor to play the Mafia don, he went with Stockwell (who is actually half-Italian on his mother's side).

“Demme's inspiration occurred on a flight from Los Angeles to New York, when he opened a copy of the Hollywood Reporter. Stockwell had just changed agents, and in order to announce the fact, had taken out a full-page ad. Demme saw the picture, and instantly recognized his Tony.

“Weirdly enough, Stockwell made another film immediately prior to 'Married to the Mob': a Canadian feature called 'Palais Royale,' due for an October release, in which he plays a character almost identical to Tony Russo.

“'It's very curious,' he says. 'For all my years I'd never had a role like this come my way, and here it was twice. The Mafia don in New York, the Mafia don in Toronto, both of them colorful and charming and also threatening. And I just thought, "What am I gonna do? It's the same character." So I decided to do the same character in both those movies.'

“To take the coincidence 'one nauseating step further,' Stockwell says he's also got a part in the recently completed 'Backtrack,' Hopper's next film. This time he plays a corrupt mob lawyer, dropping the Italian accent for a generalized East Coast sound.

“It would be difficult to find a film actor who's busier than Stockwell at this moment. And it would be difficult to find anyone whose job history better illustrates the vicissitudes, serendipities and insecurity of a Hollywood career.

“Looking back on his misfortunes -- at the career that he was forced to accept as a child, and the humiliation he felt when he couldn't maintain it as an adult -- Stockwell says he's not bitter. 'When you reach your maturity, I think it behooves you to accept the fact that it's absolutely futile and fruitless even to speculate on changing anything in your life. All you can do is get embittered. So I accept everything that's happened as part of my life, and try to push it in a positive direction from the moment right now.'”

[shimmertrapped]

I’ve Got You - Stiles Stilinski x Reader (1/?)

Summary:  After being rescued from an unknown enemy, Y/N and Stiles grow closer whilst dealing with trauma and a lingering threat.  (post-high school AU where Scott, Allison, Stiles, and Y/N are roommates)

Characters: Stiles x Argent!Cousin OC (Reader), Scott x Allison

Word Count: 2011

A/N: quarantine got me reverting to my Teen Wolf obsessed days so here is a fic i’ve been working on for fun!  my main focus is the characters so please excuse any vague/inconsistent plot details lol.  POV changes are indicted by *’s!

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Stiles hovered behind Scott, watching as his friend threw their foe against the far wall.  Scott looked over his shoulder at Stiles, fangs bared, and said, “Go find her, Stiles!  I’ll take care of him!”

That was all the permission Stiles needed.  He simply nodded before tearing off down the hallway behind them.

The walls that blurred past him were barren. His target lay straight ahead - an imposing metal door at the end of the long hall.  Stiles winced as the slash he had received in his shoulder blade stretched with his movements, but he did not slow.

He reached the door in no time and skidded to a stop, fishing inside his pocket for the key ring he had swiped earlier.  He glanced from the heavy-looking padlock on the door handle in front of him to the keys and attempted to choose one that looked like it might fit.  Hands shaking furiously, Stiles shoved the key into the lock, but when he tried to twist it, he was met with resistance.  Cursing, he picked out a second key. Same result.

“Come on,” he said through gritted teeth.  He selected a third key and willed it to work.

It did.

Relief like he’d never known washed over him as the key turned seamlessly, the insides of the lock tumbling before it opened with a satisfying click.

Stiles slammed the handle down and shoved his whole body into the door, practically falling into the room as it opened.

And there she was.  She was standing, body braced as if she were prepared for someone other than him to enter.  Her long hair was limp and her skin was wan but it was her and she was alive.

Her legs nearly gave in as she breathed,  “Stiles.”

“Y/N!” Stiles rushed forward, grabbing her by the elbows to steady her.  He helped lower her to the ground and kneeled in front of her.  “It’s okay, we’re gonna get you out of here.”

She seemed to look right through him, her gaze unfocused.

Stiles, still grasping her pale, bare arms, assessed her for any sign of injury.  He swallowed down the building lump in his throat.  “Are you hurt? Are you - ?”

“No,”  Y/N said, her voice distant.

“Okay, hang on, I’m going to get this off you,” He said, grabbing for the lock on the chain around her ankle, his stomach roiling at the sight of it.

“Are you real?”

Stiles’ attention snapped back to her eyes then, and his heart broke in his chest at the hopelessness and disbelief he found there, heard in her question. 

“Yes,” Stiles said hurriedly.  He lowered himself so they were directly face-to-face.  “Yes, look at me, I’m right here.  Scott and Allison too.  We’re gonna get you out of here.  You’re safe.”

When he saw her nod weakly, he hunched back down to survey the ring of keys in his hand once more. 

“Your shoulder...” Y/N’s voice came out as barely more than a whisper.  “It’s bleeding.”

Stiles glanced back at himself and indeed saw where his hoodie had torn, revealing a bloodied gash beneath.  He turned back around.  “I’m fine.  Don’t worry about me.”

He managed to successfully undo the lock on the first try this time and then, as gently as he could, he slid the shackle from her ankle, tamping down the rage that flared inside of him at the sight of it and the raw, red skin it left in its wake.

Stiles looked back up at Y/N.  “All right, are you ready?  Are you okay to walk?”

Y/N nodded again, and Stiles hoped he wasn’t imagining that her eyes seemed clearer now, more present.

“Here,” He extended his right arm to her.  Y/N wrapped her fingers around it and let him raise them both back up to their feet. 

And then together, they fled without another look at the wretched room behind them.

*

“Y/N!” Allison cried as they approached the jeep parked behind the decrepit building.  She embraced her cousin, tears springing from her eyes.

They stayed like that for some time, Y/N’s face stark against Allison’s dark hair.  Stiles watched them, overjoyed to see the two reunited, but simultaneously unable to help but wish he were the one holding Y/N. His heart stuttered however when her eyes fluttered open and fell on Stiles’.

But the moment was over before it had started as Scott, too, appeared from around a corner.  He spotted them.

“Y/N, thank God!” He ran over, stopping next to Allison, who finally stepped away from her cousin, but still held onto her hand.  

Scott caught Stiles’ eye then and gave him a grim look.  They needed to get out of here.  Stiles cast a wary look behind them.  “Guys, we should go.”

“Right,” Allison said.  Then, to Y/N,  “Come on, let’s get you in the car.”

The four of them headed for the jeep, Stiles jogging ahead to open the rear passenger seat door.  Allison led Y/N, who moved slowly but without any sign of a limp, or worse.  She winced however when she went to step up from the foot hold to get into the jeep's elevated seats.  She wavered slightly, but Stiles was there in an instant to grab onto her elbows once again.  “Woah, I've got you.”

He helped her up and stayed close as she slid into the seat, buckling herself in as Allison moved to climb in next to her.  When he saw that they were settled, Stiles shut the door and walked around the jeep to get in on the driver’s side, Scott already in the seat to his right.

The four of them drove away in near silence, Stiles’ eyes darting to the rearview mirror to glance at the girl on the passenger’s side the entire way home.

*

That night, Y/N’s body felt alien to her as she sat in her fresh clothes, unused now to the soft fabric and scent of laundry detergent.  The chair she sat in was off, too. Too plush.  In so short a time, she had forgotten how it felt to be comfortable.

“Here you go,” Allison returned then, setting down a steaming mug of tea on the kitchen table in front of Y/N before sitting in the chair opposite her.

“Thanks,”  Y/N said, wrapping her hands around the warm cup.  The sensation grounded her.

“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” Her cousin asked her for the third time since returning home.

Y/N nodded.  “He never physically harmed me.”

Allison’s eyes were grave as the unsaid meaning hung in the air around them.  No, her captor hadn’t laid a finger on her.  Rather, he seemed to draw his gratification from the psychological damage he inflicted on his victims.  The isolation, the deprivation...

It was why when Stiles had barged through the door, like an angel with the light of the fluorescent bulbs of the hallway surrounding him,  Y/N hadn’t been sure whether she had fallen asleep without realizing and was dreaming, or was awake and hallucinating.  Because she had begun to hallucinate.  After... Well, she had lost track of the days early on, but at some point during her captivity.  She hadn’t wanted to believe it was really him, only to have her hopes shredded when she came to and found herself alone again.

Especially because in the few times where she wasn’t trying to escape and instead let herself simply wallow, it had been him she thought of.  Stiles and his constant jokes, his warm, amber eyes... It had helped her through the darkest moments.  She had desperately clung onto the memory of his face, terrified to forget it because at times she truly believed she might never -

Y/N forced herself to snap back to the present. She was here, in the house that she had been living with Allison, Scott, and Stiles for the past seven months.  She raised her mug to her mouth and took a sip, allowing the warmth of the tea to soothe her thoughts as it coursed through her.

“I still think we should get you checked up,” Allison frowned.  “But I guess we can go tomorrow.”

Y/N didn’t bother arguing.  She knew if the roles were reversed she would likely insist the same.  Instead, she finally asked the question that had been on the tip of her tongue for the past few hours.  “Allison, how did you guys find me?”

"Well, we had Scott along with Derek's whole pack searching the entire city for your scent... But we came up short.” Allison said grimly.  Her expression grew thoughtful as she set her mug down.  “It was Stiles, really.”

Y/N sat up a little. “Stiles?”

Allison turned somber again.  “I... I don’t think he slept all week.  I mean, we were working overtime too, but...  I guess he found a way to decrypt the IP address of the e-mail Scott received, and he didn’t leave his room until he finally managed to crack it last night.”

Y/N looked down at the table, her mind whirring with mingling feelings of overwhelming gratitude and guilt.  

She looked back up however when Allison reached across the table to place her hand over hers. As if reading her mind, her cousin said, “I’m not telling you this to make you feel guilty.  Never feel that way.  I just thought you should know.  I think he really -”

Allison didn’t get to finish her sentence however as at that moment, Scott and Stiles came through the front door, returning from their meeting with Sheriff Stilinski. Scott came to stand next to Allison, placing a hand on her shoulder, Stiles trailing behind.   Y/N stared into her swirling tea.

“How'd it go?” Allison asked, looking up at them.

"We filled them in," Scott said. Then he looked to Y/N, his face apologetic.  “You’ll need to make a statement.”

“But you can do that whenever you’re ready,” Stiles rushed to say.

“Of course,” Scott said.

A phone buzzed then, and Scott reached into his jacket.  He glanced down at the screen and swore.  They all looked to him in alarm.

“What is it?” Allison asked.

“It’s Derek,” Scott said.  “Allison - he needs our help.”

“Both of us?” Allison’s eyes darted to Y/N.

Scott seemed hesitant to give any more details, but his eyes conveyed the urgency.

“Will you be alright?” Allison asked, turning to Y/N. 

She could feel all three of them watching her.

“Go,” Y/N said.  “I know Derek wouldn’t ask if it wasn't necessary.”

Allison pursed her lips.  “We’ll be back as soon as we can.  If you need anything, call me.”

Y/N looked to Scott and saw an internal battle - him not wanting to rush Allison away at such a sensitive time, but also knowing they were racing a ticking clock against whatever or whomever Derek was up against.

“Go,” Y/N repeated.  Then she glanced at Stiles who she found was already looking at her.  “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Allison said, then again, more to herself, “Okay.  Let’s go.”

Scott looked relieved but said, “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

“Good luck, guys,” Stiles said.

With that, Scott and Allison hurried out the door, pulling their jackets on as they went.  And then it was just Y/N and Stiles.  A memory came back to Y/N at that moment and her eyes widened.  She blinked up at Stiles.  “Your shoulder - did you get it patched up?”

Stiles waved a hand nonchalantly.  “Yeah, it was nothing.  I’m fine.”

Y/N looked at him, slightly skeptical. And then, as he took a step forward into the light, she saw the dark shadows under his eyes. She frowned. “You look exhausted.”

Stiles ran a hand through his messy dark hair.  He said, seemingly reluctantly, “I guess I could sleep.”

Y/N sighed.  “Me too.”

Stiles gave her a resigned look.  Then, he nodded behind him.  “C’mon, let’s head up.”

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AO3 link

posted April 29, 2020

[ratsoh-writes]

My curiosity got me, so here is my submission for a match up.  Sorry it’s so long!  I look forward to seeing your reasoning.

PERSONALITY TRAITS:

MOM FRIEND:  I’m the friend that is almost over prepared for any situation and is protective, usually keeping others out of too much trouble or danger, but not stopping them from doing that stupid thing.  Some people will only learn from doing it and so long as it won’t seriously injure or kill them, go for it.  And I mean I am seriously prepared for most situations:  I have fluffy throw blankets and pillows in my car for those who get cold, extra towels just in case we somehow get wet, umbrellas/ponchos for those who need one, snacks/water just in case someone gets hungry/thirsty, first aid kit for small injuries, etc. Ironically, I am the only one without a kid so far.  

Extension of this would be my habit to act as the friend “nurse.”  Willing to spend hours taking care of a friend who isn’t feeling well and give platonic cuddles if needed.

Another extension of this is my need to feed anyone who comes over.  I think my love language is acts of service after typing all this. 

I’M LISTENING:  Always willing to offer an ear, even if I don’t believe I can council you.  Plus, for some reason, people just end up splurging life stories or something that is bothering them to me.  My life is mostly spent as that Naruto meme: “I have no clue what is going on, but I’ll pretend that I do.”  But I’m responsible about it, I won’t offer advice I’m not sure about and will usually refer you to someone else I feel is up to the task.

PATIENT:  Earned after years in customer service dealing with toddlers disguised as customers and also with friends who far exceed my energy levels.  It takes a good bit to anger me or very specific things to set me off, such as when I have asked you to please stop bringing up that stressful memory of mine again and again. 

I am told I am terrifying when I’m actually pissed.  Most times I don’t remember much when I actually snap, just that it happened, but details are fuzzy.  

CHILL:  My counselor once told me if I “Was any more laid back, I’d be on her floor.” And to a point, she is correct.  My house was on fire and my reaction wasn’t panic at the time, it was this odd calm that even when I reported the fire to my sister and authorities, they didn’t believe me until I showed them said fire.  I am reserved with those I don’t know well or are not comfortable around.  Once I trust you or you get me on a topic I love, I’m surprisingly passionate and animated.  

I feel this fits under here, but I also tend to do things at my own pace.  And not much can change that pace, but I will get what I set out to do done.

WHY ME?:  Too many people tell me I’m a natural leader, even got awards for it, but I never volunteer or want to be the leader in anything.  Usually, I just end up in that role somehow, some way.  Most times because I hate disorganized messes and those times the people I am with have trouble making concrete decisions and need some guidance to work out what they really want to do or the pressure to actually make a decision.  I may be an unwilling leader, but I will step up if needed.

WHIMSICAL:  Sarcasm, dry and sometimes cheesy humour, and an attitude to boot, but it’s rarely to be mean.  Most times it is me being playful and if I’m teasing you, that usually is a sign I like you and enjoy your company.  Plus, sometimes people need a little laugh or a spark of different emotion to get them out of a funk.  

INTEGRITY:  I could absolutely despise someone, but like hell I’m going watch them suffer.  In the same sense, if I take a job, I will do it right and not half ass it.  And far too many times I’ve had to step in and explain certain concepts in order to disperse negativity or help others see from another perspective to avoid adversity.  

CUDDLE BUG:  With people I am comfortable with, I am a cuddly person and do not mind a lot of skinship.  I am used to friends hanging all over me.  Plus, sometimes I just want to curl up someone as well.  

  STRENGTHS:  

Observant

Good communication skills & honest

Responsible & reliable

Full Size Human Heater.  I am ridiculously warm and always putting off heat.  Friends and coworkers alike use me as a portable heater.

Surprisingly good at being sly and collecting information if needed, like getting a shoe or ring size without tipping the person off it’s for a gift.  If they manage to call it, I always fess up and playfully make a fuss they ruined the surprise.

  WEAKNESSES:  

Terrible at lying, so I tend to simply keep my mouth shut instead

Willfully oblivious to flirting and absolute flustered mess once I am forced to recognize said flirting

Vast open waters terrify me

Tendency to keep my troubles to myself and try to solve problems on my own (don’t want to be a burden)

Can become despondent if I feel useless at times

  HOBBIES:

ART:  I’ve dabbled in several different medias, but my favorite is just a pencil or pen and any paper I can get my hands on.  I love drawing figures in dynamic poses.  Second favorite is sculptures built from wire.

COSTUMES:  I love Halloween, since it is the perfect excuse to make and wear my homemade costumes.  It also lets me challenge myself by making more complicated pieces like hooves, horns, and even chain mail.

BAKING/COOKING/CANDY MAKING:  I’m the cook in the house and I love it.  Seeing people enjoy my food is my favorite part.  Just don’t ask me for a recipe, I literally don’t have any and I won’t remember what I did.  

ORGANIZING/CLEANING:  I love puzzle games like Tetris and Catherine, and I love a challenge.  Combine the two by having me organize and rearrange a space to make it work and I am in heaven.

STORYTELLING:  When a story needs to be told, I am the one asked to tell it. Specifically I have such an entertaining way of telling it according to others.  Animated and colorful language, plus a few pit stops along the way with some side stories.  

  PET PEEVES:

CONTRARY:  Do not tell me to do something while I am doing it.  That will kill any motivation I had to do it.

BACKHANDED COMPLIMENTS:  It is possible to compliment someone without insulting them or others at the same time.  It just makes the compliment feel empty and negative.  And I tend to just hum and not reward that behaviour.  

TOO MUCH ATTENTION:  I don’t mind attention… from people I trust and are comfortable with.  Feel free to cuddle and coddle away.  But vast amounts of attention from those I feel are strangers or acquaintances will unnerve me (I have literally left functions immediately  where I walked in and was bombarded with shouts and attention aimed at me-sensory overload I guess).

  ODD HABITS:

NESTING:  No, I don’t think I have enough blankets and pillows.  Yes, the giant stuffed animal is needed and his name is Snuffie.  

CRUSH ME:  I’m serious, some days I need one of my friends or my bf to just lay all their dead weight on top of me.  It’s just oddly therapeutic.

NO, I’M NOT PREGNANT:  Just cause I ate that jar of olives in one sitting or suddenly was craving jalapeno juice and crushed ramen noodles.  There are never enough pickles and yes, I am determined to try every kind–I may have a vinegar addiction.

IRONY:  I bake some of the tastiest, sweetest desserts and make pralines and caramels, YET I myself do not favor sweet things. 

HANDS:  One thing I tended to do with nearly every boyfriend and guy friend I had was play with their hands and put their hands on my face/head.  I lived for being pet and having people play with my hair.    

NONVERBAL MOMENTS:  Sometimes words are just too much, so I instead make sounds.  Can be anywhere from a growl to a cat like noise, or the reliable “Nyeh.”

NO NOs:

I think I listed a few as I went through everything else, but ignoring boundaries is the main one.  If I tell you I’m not comfortable with something, do not make me repeat myself.  And usually that something is given a pass the first few times it is done before I say something and explain why I’m not comfortable with it.   

Example:  I have thick, curly hair, a product of my mixed heritage.  Well, sometimes I like to straighten it and I did just that one day.  Well, a coworker decided to make a backhanded compliment, stating I should stick to what works: straight hair over my natural hair.  I had gotten on him about it, but I decided to vent to a friend about what happened as well.  She proceeded to constantly repeat those hurtful words and while I knew she meant it playfully during those times, I had to stop her and sit her down, explain I don’t find it funny cause the words are linked to a hurtful, possibly racist memory that I didn’t want brought up again and again.   Thankfully she understood and stopped.  So, I don’t snap immediately and I understand sometimes a sit down needs to be done.

Ok first of all I gotta say that I absolutely loved reading your matchup!!! It’s so well organized, detailed, and the descriptions are pretty creative!!! Do you do any writing yourself, because you should!!! alright, geek out moment over.

i’ve got three guys you’re perfect for, but let’s go for the obvious one. HONEY!! 

You’ve checked off everything on honey’s list: caring, organized, laid back, and good for cuddling. Now here’s what he has to offer to the table: he will cuddle you back. This guy is the ultimate cuddle slut. You’ll never feel unloved with him. Honey is also a very thoughtful and appreciative guy. He likes caring for his partners. You may be the mom friend, but he’ll do his best to return that love as well.

Honey is a little awkward, but he’s also sensitive and empathetic to how others feel. If he puts his foot in his mouth, just tell him and he’ll never bring it up again. Plus this guy is just so honest and genuine that backhanded compliments aren't really a thing with him. 

Also you like costumes!!! He’s always wanted to try cosplay or theatre. You just might be the person to give him the courage to finally stick to one. 

dating honey includes:

cuddles upon heaps of soft things. He has his own collections of ridiculously soft blankets and pillows that he’ll happily add to your collection. Honey is also a master at pillow forts. 

honey is a good listener. He’ll be happy to just sit back and enjoy the stories you tell. There is start though, who is also the storyteller of the underswap home. Any funny story you give about your time together will be rewarded by star with a funny story from his and honey’s childhood, much to honey’s embarrassment

if you don't really like sweet things but love baking them, then honey and star will happily finish them for you. People are usually surprised about how just how much skeleton monsters can pack away. 

he’s a picky eater and will give you the wtf face when you fufil your weird cravings though lol 

Oh! Also if you’re wondering, the other two would’ve been either oak or coffee

[merlindynasty]

oh my god guys.... we did it.

1000 followers babey!! I decided to write a fanfiction to celebrate. its going to be linked below but also pasted, and until i work out how to do that cut thing, its gonna be a pretty long post. sorry about that. You can read it on this link though!

Merlin sits on the lake for the last time.

‘I love you,’ he says, almost offhandedly, like he has done every year since the First World War, when the sounds of pain and suffering were getting too much, when he realised that Arthur wasn’t coming back. When he had realised that Kilgharrah had lied.

He said a lot of things then, too.

A lot of things have happened since then. Yet here he is.

Merlin caresses the surface of the water with one finger, watching it swirl around with his light touch. He’s noticed over the years that his longing for Arthur recedes the closer he is to the lake; a sort of numbing to the agony that never improves, even with age and distraction. Merlin welcomes it, rolling up his pant legs and swinging his legs over the side of the dock where he’s sitting. Feeling the cold water of Avalon wrap around his feet and making him feel something other than the fact that Arthur is mere metres under the ground in the Lady of the Lake’s grasp, and has always been just out of reach.

“This is the last time you’ll be seeing me, old friend,” Merlin breathes, looking down at the reflection in the water longingly. “Don’t worry about me, though. I’m sure I’ll join you soon enough.”

The water doesn’t reply.

“I’ll miss you, Arthur, like always,” Merlin continues, “But maybe I’ll find other things to miss. Ripped jeans. iPods. Who knows? This world always spins too fast for its own good.”

And so Merlin stands up, shaking the lake water off his legs, and wipes away a stray tear that’s escaped from his brimming eyes. Goodbye, Arthur. He voices the sentiment aloud, back turned to the lake at last.

“Not a chance, you idiot.”

Wild-eyed, Merlin spins, and there he is, standing at the end of the dock. Just a few feet away.

There Arthur is, standing there dripping wet with seaweed in his hair, and he looks so real and exactly how he looked all that time ago in Camelot.

Merlin just stands there for a moment, forgetting how to breathe.

“Hello, Merlin,” Arthur says with the haughtiness that he’s always possessed, and Merlin chokes on tears.

Then he runs to Arthur, almost slipping on the wet planks. He grabs onto Arthur's rusted chain mail with both hands, tackling him, and the momentum carries them both off the wooden dock and into the icy waters below.

They sink for a moment, locked in a tight embrace. Then Merlin remembers where they are and kicks up, gasping for air. He tugs Arthur up to the surface with him, and there Arthur is in his arms again.

“Hello, Merlin,” Arthur says after coughing up some lake water, smiling that stupid smug grin. Merlin sobs once more, an ugly wretched sound, and smashes their mouths together.

Arthur sighs and pulls Merlin closer into a tight embrace, and now with no one to keep them upright they start sinking.

It’s okay, though, because Merlin’s got Arthur and he’s never letting him go.

Fast forward now— to them crawling onto the beach and collapsing on the rocks. Merlin can’t take his eyes off Arthur and his blue eyes, strong shoulders, all here on land. He swallows, suddenly feeling lightheaded. Arthur laughs, a joyful, imperative sound, and Merlin feels like throwing up.

It’s like

“Hey,” Arthur says gently. “Merlin. C’mere.”

Merlin wants to tell Arthur everything he’s missed. He wants to scream and dive back into the icy lake, down to the realm where Arthur was kept from him and demand an answer to the question he’s been asking for centuries; why wait this long?

But eventually Merlin just nods and lets Arthur hold him close. He lays his head on Arthur’s chest and listens to Arthur’s heart beating, the way it had all those years ago.

“Why did you say that?” Arthur murmurs after a while.

Merlin sits up, cupping Arthur’s face in his hands. Just because he can. Just so he can feel that cool skin against his palm again. “Why did you say goodbye?”

Merlin swallows. “Is that why you came back? Because I was leaving?”

“I thought you were going to kill yourself, Merlin,” Arthur chokes. “Isn’t that what you meant?”

“I was just going to leave England, Arthur,” Merlins says gently. “I’ve never left, in fear of you coming back and being all alone, but this century I kind of gave up.”

“How long has it been?”

“Arthur, I-”

“How long has it been, Merlin?” Arthur says impatiently.

“It’s been thousands of years, Arthur,” Merlin whispers.

Arthur sighs. “I thought as much. I’ve heard you, you know. Little snippets of stories throughout the years. I’ve known that the world has been changing.”

Merlin doesn’t know what to say.

“I shouldn’t have come back,” Arthur says suddenly. “You were just about to move on, about to live out your life without me; I’ve ruined it.”

Arthur almost sounds like a child, petulant and sullen, and Merlin starts to cry. “Arthur, you coming back is… the best thing that’s ever happened. Please don’t go back there, I couldn’t bear it.”

Arthur wraps his arms around Merlin’s waist and holds him for a while. Merlin can’t stop crying, from shock and relief and exhaustion. It’s all catching up to him now, the time spent from Arthur.

“How did you survive, Merlin?” Arthur says softly. “It’s been so long.”

Merlin sniffles. “I don’t feel like talking about it at the moment. Later. Later I’ll tell you,” he promises.

It’s getting cold now; the sun is beginning to set. Merlin doesn’t feel it, but he knows that Arthur would in that chainmail of his. “Want to come home?” He asks.

Arthur smiles. “I would love to find out what small hole you’ve dug for yourself,” he teases. “Do they still have peasants, Merlin? I bet you’re one of them with those holes you have in your jeans.”

“It’s called fashion, Barbara, look it up,” Merlin retorts, feeling a light buzz in his chest at the banter that they’ve already fallen into. He stands up, brushing off his soaking jeans and offering Arthur a hand.

“What did you just call me? Barbara?” Arthur mumbles, but doesn’t get a reply. They make their way across the grass and into the city.

Merlin’s managed to get Arthur into his apartment somehow; he’s been reminded in the past ten minutes how much the world has changed since Arthur’s been gone (he refuses to ever say die, it’s too finite), but also how much it’s stayed the same.

“Look, here’s the bath, see?” Merlin says cheerfully as he peels off a dazed Arthur’s sopping wet clothing in the bathroom of his apartment.

Arthur’s doing great really. He got a little frightened of the cars, almost drawing out Excalibur before forgetting that it was still in the lake, but the tall buildings didn’t seem to phase him too much. Neither did the elevator. Merlin’s proud of him through the shocked haziness that’s been fogging up his mind.

Merlin turns off the water when it gets to an appropriate height, then helps Arthur get in. Then he peels off his own clothing and clambers into his bath without thinking about it too much, then turns red, not wanting to assume, or impose. He doesn’t have to worry, though, because Arthur crinkles his eyes up in a cute fashion and grasps Merlin’s hands in his. The warm water seeps into Merlin’s skin and into his heart.

“I love you, Merlin,” Arthur says suddenly, without warning. Merlin laughs, a happy, bubbly feeling rising up inside him like champagne, and brings their intertwined hands up to his reddening chest.

They’re sitting closer now. “You haven’t changed one bit, you know that?” Arthur asks.

“You haven’t either,” Merlin whispers, realising how close Arthur’s golden face has gotten.

Arthur ignores him in a very Arthur fashion. “Your eyes are still so dark,” he breathes with an air of arrogance, like he’s studying something on the wall. “And your hair is still so messy. Why is it always so messy?”

Merlin fights down the urge to reach up and fix it, because he’d have to let go of Arthur’s hands that are rubbing calming circles on his skin. “Is that a problem for you, Arthur?”

“No,” Arthur says seriously. “The problem is that I find it endearing.”

Merlin laughs, turning even redder with the steam rising up from the water, and Arthur leans in to kiss him.

Everything makes sense now, as Arthur untangles their hands and reaches up to wet Merlin’s hair with his fingers. It’s all coming together for the first time in centuries. He suddenly realises that he would do it all again, wait all these years one hundred times over, to kiss Arthur. He tilts his head to the side and lets Arthur kiss him until the water gets cold.

Later, when Arthur’s dressed in Merlin’s sweatpants and they’re lying in Merlin’s bed, Arthur asks a very important question.

“What do we do now?”

Merlin sighs out a long breath. “We sort things out, I suppose. There’s so much you need to learn about what you’ve missed; we can go travelling. I’ve always wanted to go travelling.”

Arthur smiles. “That sounds good. You teaching me things. That should be interesting.”

Merlin laughs, shoving him a little.

But Arthur frowns again. “What about us? We can’t just say warm fuzzy things to each other forever, you’ll get bored of me. It’s also very improper.”

“I’ll never get bored of you, Arthur,” Merlin breathes, chest tight. “I waited this long, didn’t I?”

Arthur just stares at him then, deep in thought, then pulls him into a long kiss.

When they pull back, Merlin also adds, “And it’s okay to be gay now, okay? No one cares about blokes kissing blokes. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Really?” Arthur laughs, scratching his head. “That’s weird.”

Merlin smiles, then pulls Arthur close again, suddenly not bearing to not be touching completely. Arthur rests his chin on Merlin’s hair and hugs Merlin back gently.

“I love you,” Merlin whispers into Arthur’s bare chest.

Arthur pulls Merlin closer. “I know, clotpole.”

“Hey, that’s my word.”

Then Merlin starts laughing, a strange mixture of relief and joy. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to say that.”

Arthur kisses the top of Merlin’s head. “I suppose we’ll be alright then.”

“Yeah, Arthur. We’ll be all right.”