#i should probably have a charcoal tag by now too

[demonslayedher]

Things making me sad this morning:

1. People don’t know, love, and appreciate Japanese swords enough. Yes, they are cool, but can you even fathom the extent of why? Have you even tried?

2. That we didn't see Nezuko go berserk at least one more time

3. How closely related the production of charcoal is to the production of swords. You cannot have Nichirin-to without sunlight, yes, but you also can't have them without lots and lots of charcoal. As fellow fireworkers, Tanjiro would be able to relate to the swordsmiths at a core level. They would of course appreciate him for this, too. It is beautiful and not appreciated enough.

4. Poor Giyuu thinking Tanjiro is dead and the very next instant having to try to chop his head, yikes--

5. It can be so hard to transmit love and appreciation for swords. So much of it is still mysterious to me. WHY DO I NOT KNOW AS MUCH AS AN EXPERT WOULD, WHY

6. Charcoal as well is so underappreciated and I likewise cannot fully grasp it, aaaaaahhhhhh

[rubyreduji]

charcoal stained hands — wjh

summary: jun falls in love on a tuesday afternoon in an art studio

tags: fluff, college!au, artist!reader, gn!reader wc: 3.1k an: perpetuating the sexy artist trope im sorry. also i apparently don’t know how to characterize jun so if it’s off don’t tell me

Jun’s never been inside the art building before. He’s not really the artsy type so he’s never had a reason to, but now he’s gotten himself a bit lost as he wanders around the building looking for his best friend.

The art building is huge with multiple floors and lots of long winding hallways that lead to nowhere. Not to mention the countless number of studios that Minghao could be hiding out in. This could take him all day just to find one person. 

Jun turns the corner and walks right into a drawing studio. The room has a high ceiling and there’s easels and stools all over the room. There’s only one person occupying the room.

You sit on a stool, frowning at a half filled piece of paper. There’s black charcoal all over your hands and up your arms and smeared across your jeans. The drawing itself looks to be a portrait of someone, but it hasn’t taken enough from yet for Jun to guess who it is. 

You turn when you hear someone approaching and Jun has to take a moment to take all of you in. Jun’s never been someone who believes in love at first sight, but he just might now. You’re probably the most beautiful person Jun has ever seen in his life, and he’s friends with Jeonghan.

Everything about you is perfect from your facial features to the style of your hair to the clothes you’re wearing. It wouldn’t surprise Jun if a glowing halo just appeared atop your head.

“Oh, hi.” Even your voice is pretty. “Are you looking for something?”

It takes Jun a few more seconds to realize you’re talking to him. “Uh, more like someone. Would you possibly happen to know where Xu Minghao is?”

“Minghao…Minghao…”

“You might know him as Myungho?”

“Oh Myungho! Yes, I actually do know where he is. Here let me show you, it’s easy to get lost in this building.” Jun doesn’t have the heart to tell you he’s already lost just standing in this room.

You jump up from where you are sitting and quickly wipe your hands off on a towel sitting on your easel. Your hands are still covered in the black pigment but it doesn’t seem to phase you as you make your way out of the room, Jun following behind you.

“I haven’t seen you around the art building before. Are you new?”

“No, I’m a second year, I’ve just never made my way into the art building before. I’m usually over in the dance studios,” Jun explains.

“Oh, the dance studios? Do you and Myungho dance together?”

“Yeah we do, but we go way back. He’s my best friend.”

“Oh, you’re Jun!” You turn around to look at Jun directly, your face lighting up. Jun flushes from how pretty your smile is. “Myungho talks about you all the time. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

You two walk for a bit more in silence before Jun starts another conversation. “So, are you an art major?”

“Yep! I love art, all kinds of it. Thankfully I’m pretty good at it as well,” you giggle. “Are you a dance major or is it just a hobby?”

“I’m a dance major. Being a dancer is the only thing I’ve wanted ever since I was little.”

“Wow, that’s so cool. I’ll have to come see you and Myungho dance sometime. I love dance, but that’s one art form I personally do not excel at. Oh, speaking of Myungho, here we are! He should be right in there.” You lift your hand to point into the studio but you accidentally brush Jun’s hand while you do, rubbing charcoal dust onto Jun’s skin. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

“Don’t worry about it, it’ll wash off,” Jun reassures you, more focused on the tingling sensation your touch left rather than the black marks it left. “Thank you for guiding me here though.”

“Of course! See you around Jun!” With that you head back off to where you came from and Jun heads into the studio you lead him too, his mind still flooded with thoughts of you.

Just like you said, Minghao is standing at a canvas, glaring at it. It’s blank except for two small blue marks that look like Minghao tried to wipe them off with his hand.

“Minghao,” Jun approaches the younger boy.”

“Jun,” Minghao says when he turns to face his friend. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been texting you all afternoon and you never responded so I decided to come find you.”

“What did you need?”

“That’s not important anymore, I need you to tell me who this person was.”

Jun describes you to Minghao who takes a moment to contemplate who Jun may be talking about. “Ah, you’re thinking of Y/N. Why? Did you meet them?”

Once Minghao says the name it clicks in Jun’s mind who you are. Like Minghao has talked about Jun to you, he’s talked about you to Jun. Minghao has mentioned a couple times of how you’re some art prodigy who practically lives in the art building. Minghao has been lucky to get close to you as it seems that as friendly as you are, you don’t have very many friends.

Minghao assumes it’s because almost everyone in the art department is obsessed with you, desperate to gain your attention. Jun can see why now. He figured it was just to trade art tips or to get close to someone who is the professors’ favorite, which might actually be a part of it, but it’s not unlikely there are ulterior motives as well. 

“Yeah they showed me to this room. You never told me they’re gorgeous.”

Minghao rolls his eyes. “I didn’t know that was something I had to state. C’mon, don’t be like all the other jerks who inhabit this place.”

“I’m not trying to be! I’m just saying that they’re very attractive. And nice.”

“I know that. If you remember, they’re my friend, not yours. Now what did you actually need me for?”

“Hoshi is calling an emergency dance crew meeting.”

Minghao just sighs and moves to put away his art supplies.

Your existence in Jun’s mind has waived for the time being until he walks into dance practice one day and there you’re standing, talking to Hoshi and Minghao. Jun hesitantly approached the group, a bit nervous to be in your presence again. You don’t seem nervous to be around Jun though as you shoot him a giant smile.

“Jun! Hi. Soonyoung is allowing me to sit in on practice so I can work on drawing figures in action.” You point over to a folding chair in the corner where a sketchbook and a pencil bag sit. “Don’t worry, I won’t be in the way. It’ll be like I’m not even here.”

You move over to where you’re stationed and Hoshi starts to lead stretches. Jun can’t help but keep taking glances over at you. Despite being the one performing, you’re wildly more interesting in this moment.

Jun studies the way your eyes flit over his and the other’s forms, dissecting every move made. Concentration has settled into your face and Jun doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone be beautiful while being serious. There are moments where you chew at your lip, like you’re contemplating your next move, before you make a mark on your page. Your eyes stay on the bodies in front of you, more than the page you’re drawing on. It’s like your eyes are laser focused on the dancers, not wanting to miss a single move.

At some point Jun comes to the realization that you’re also performing your own kind of dance, choreographed between you and your paper. Your arm and wrist move fluidly, creating swift and smooth marks on the paper. Just as much detail goes into your drawing as it goes into Jun’s movements. It makes him think about how you called dancing a form of art. You are aware of all the time and effort that goes into a performance because you put the same amount of time and effort into your pieces.

Practice is over before Jun knows it and he realizes that he spent the whole time staring at you rather than actually doing what he was supposed to. He can’t do anything about it now other than hope for forgiveness from Hoshi.

After Jun is done packing up his things he walks over to you where you’re still adding finishing touches to your work. You look up when Jun stops next to you. He looks down at your page and is amazed to see all of the figures filled on your page. Your drawings are as fluid as the dance moves they were performing and Jun doesn’t think he’s ever seen a sketch that so perfectly communicates what was happening in real life. 

“Wow Y/N, your work is incredible,” Jun tells you.

“Oh, thank you. They’re not my best though. I was so entranced by you guys dancing. You guys are amazing, I could barely look away,” you gush. “I love the way you move in particular. Your limbs are just so long they move so smoothly. I’d honestly love to do a study on you and draw you more. Sorry if that’s weird. Sometimes art takes over my brain before I can think before I speak.”

“No, that’s not weird at all. I’d be honored to be drawn by you. I’m not kidding when I said our work is incredible.”

“Would you actually let me draw you?” Your face lights up at the proposition.

“Yeah, of course.”

“Oh my god, that would be amazing! Here let me give you my number and we can coordinate times to meet up and discuss more.” You quickly scribble your phone number down on the corner of your sketchbook and rip it off to hand to Jun. Just like before your hands are covered in your art medium (graphite this time) with some of it even rubbing off on the paper you’re holding out to Jun.

Jun takes it and tries not to be too excited to receive the piece of paper. You quickly bid your goodbyes and Jun thinks about how quickly he can text you without it being weird.

You two decided to meet up later in the week back in the painting studio. You’re already there when Jun walks in. Your supplies are all laid out and it seems you’ve already applied an underpainting on your canvas.

You light up when you see your model walk into the room. “Jun! Yay, I’m glad you didn’t get lost getting here. I was thinking that you could just pose here for me. I just love your body, your limbs are beautiful. Just spread out, something dynamic, yeah?”

You’re nearly rambling as you talk but Jun just goes along with it. He moves to the center of the room where there’s a small platform. He steps onto it and looks back at you to make sure he’s doing it right. You help guide him into a pose that’s both visually pleasing and comfortable for Jun to hold.

“Not to be weird or anything, but you are really pretty. Just aesthetically attractive,” you say to him as you start to sketch out his figure.

“O-oh, thanks.” Jun’s face starts to heat up. He hopes you don’t notice. “I uhm, think you’re pretty too. You and your art.”

You laugh a bit. “The art probably more so, but thank you.”

You and Jun continue to make conversation while you lay your pigments down on the canvas in bold, confident strokes with your brush. Outside of being drop dead gorgeous, you’re also just a genuinely nice person to be around. The conversation flows well between you and Jun and it seems you guys even have the same sense of humor.

“Here, you probably need a break. Let’s order lunch, yeah? On me.” You set your paint brush down. You pick up your phone to look up nearby restaurants. “Hmm. Or, I know this place close by. We could go and get lunch and get out of the studio all together.”

“Yeah, that would be nice,” Jun says as he internally freaks out a bit. It’s obviously not a date, you’re just being nice, but still it makes him giddy and slightly flustered.

You gather your things and start out the door, Jun following behind you. As you walk Jun glances over at you and smiles a bit. There’s something endearing about how whenever you’re creating art you make a mess. It’s all a part of the process and Jun thinks that it would honestly be weird to see your hands not covered in some kind of medium. There are paint splotches all over your hands and arms and Jun can’t tell if you don’t notice them or just don’t care. Maybe it’s both.

The walk to the spot you were talking about isn’t long and you buy both you and Jun a sandwich.

“Thanks for doing this for me. I know you probably didn’t plan on spending the whole day with me.”

“It’s okay,” Jun reassures you, and he means it, “I like spending time with you.”

You smile at Jun. “I like spending time with you too.”

Ever since the first time you worked on your painting of Jun you guys have been spending more time together, whether it’s to work on art, or just enjoy each other’s presence. Your painting of Jun still isn’t finished but you don’t seem to be in any rush and Jun enjoys being your ‘muse’ as you call him.

You and Jun are hanging out together in the painting studio when Minghao walks in. He rolls his eyes at the sight of you two.

“You know Y/N was my friend first,” Minghao complains as he approaches you guys. 

“It’s not my fault they enjoy my company more,” Jun shrugs.

“Hey, I enjoy you both!” You interject. 

“But I’m your favorite, right?” Jun looks over at you.

“You would just love that, wouldn’t you Jun?” Minghao teases. Jun’s crush on you hasn’t gone away and Minghao knows that. He never misses a chance to make a dig at Jun for it.

“It’s not my fault you won’t model for me,” you say to Minghao, ignoring the comments both boys just made. “Jun here at least appreciates my art.”

“I appreciate your art and you know I do.” Minghao rolls his eyes.

“Sure, sure,” you sigh dramatically. “At least I still have Junhui.” You drape yourself over Jun with false despair. Minghao doesn’t seem to appreciate your dramatics but Jun lets out a chuckle. “See, he also appreciates my humor.” 

Minghao ignores you. “I’m just here to grab the coat I left earlier. Make sure to go wash your hands when you’re done Y/N, there’s still ink all over the keys to the printmaking studio.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter, not caring to listen to Minghao’s advice. Minghao just sighs and makes his exit. “He just can’t appreciate good art making techniques.”

“I like how you get messy when you make your art. It’s cute.”

“Aww thanks Jun. I just don’t have time to be neat about it and it makes it more fun! It's like I’m a part of the art piece as well. If you can’t get a little messy while making art then what’s the point?”

“You really are something amazing L/N Y/N,” Jun says.

“I think you’re talking about yourself there, Moon Junhui. Have you seen yourself dance? It’s beautiful.” Your voice softens a bit as you look at Jun in the eyes. “You’re beautiful.”

“Y/N?”

“Will you go out with me?” The words leave your mouth in a whisper. You’re still staring into Jun’s eyes, your face painted with worry.

“I- uh, yes!” God Jun wishes he was cool. “Wait- wait, you like me? You like me back? You just asked me out?”

“Has it not been obvious?” You laugh a little bit. “Of course I like you, why do you think I spend so much time with you? I compliment you all the time.”

“I thought you were just being nice!”

“I don’t like people! Hasn’t Myungho told you that?” Now that Jun thinks about it, Minghao has told him that. Huh. Maybe Jun is just oblivious.

“I’ve liked you since I first saw you,” Jun admits, “sitting in that drawing studio with charcoal all over your hands. Ever since then I’ve been telling myself that you’d never like me back and here we are.”

“The moment I saw you dance I was gone for. Why do you think I’ve made you my muse?” Jun cannot believe this. “I don’t just call you attractive for no reason. You are very pretty Jun.”

“Minghao is never going to believe this,” Jun whispers and you laugh.

“Y/N-ah!” Jun comes barreling into the drawing studio. You’re sitting at a stool in front of a canvas, just like so many months ago when Jun first met you. You’re working on a charcoal drawing once again, this time it’s a self portrait.

There’s a mirror set up next to you and a scowl plastered on your actual face. You turn when you hear your boyfriend approaching and suddenly a smile spreads across your mouth. “Junnie!” You stand up and run over to your boyfriend.

You grab his face and press a kiss to his lips.

“Baby,” Jun laughs. “Your hands.”

You pull away and look at your hands as if you’re just now noticing the charcoal dust all over your fingertips. Jun’s not actually upset though as this is nearly a daily occurrence. You decide to make the best of it and take your thumb and swipe it against Jun’s cheek twice.

Jun moves over to the mirror to look at himself and see the small charcoal heart you’ve smeared onto his cheek. Jun turns back to you and kisses you again.

“So I called you here for a reason,” you say as you move around the room, grabbing a canvas sitting in the corner. “Look what I’ve finished.”

You turn the canvas around to reveal the painting of Jun you started the first time you two spent time together. The painting perfectly captures Jun’s atmosphere when he’s dancing. The painting is fluid and colorful and Jun can barely believe it’s him in the piece.

“Oh wow Y/N this is…stunning,” Jun says. 

“I’m pretty proud of it and I’m even more proud of what came out of it,” you say with a cheesy grin on your face.

“Oh you wanna kiss me so badly right now,” Jun teases. You don’t respond, just lean forward and press your lips to Jun’s cheek on the heart you made.

“Let’s go get lunch, yeah? We can talk about my next portrait of you.” You motion to grab Jun’s hand and Jun happily accepts, along with all of the charcoal stains that come with it.

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[freetobeeyouandme]

Like My Mirror Years Ago

Tags: Rated M, No Archive Warnings Apply, Bylerween 2023, Will Byers/Mike Wheeler, Supernatural Creatures, CW Blood, Vampire!Mike, Aged-Up Character(s)

Words: 5.2k

Summary:

It’s the man’s colors, that haunt him. The pale skin, so white it’s almost translucent, combined with the soft darkness of his hair, falling long past his face in such an antiquated manner. The delicate nose, the cheekbones…Will is an artist, he should know beauty, has set it down in charcoals, watercolors and oils over and over for the history of the future to admire, and yet he has never come across a face so delicate, so attractive. He could paint it a hundred times and never tire of it. He could only paint this man for the rest of eternity and his soul would know no greater joy. Even he, never skilled with the hammer and the chisel, wants to carve marble replica after marble replica, wants to be the Pgymalion to this Galatea. He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance. - Or, Bylerween Day 6: Supernatural Creatures

read on Ao3 or below; see whole collection

A/N:

Happy Halloween and to celebrate this most holy day, here's probably actually my favorite fic I've written for Bylerween 2023. Vampires are my favorite type of creature and so this was insanely fun. It was also cool to try out a more flowery writing style as I tried to channel gay irish fin de siècle writer with this. And accordingly it ended up being as horny as I dared to go considering the event limitations. Also a big shout out to this amazing art by @ekza-art, which basically inspired this entire thing. CW: Blood

-------

Will thinks, before he even enters the dining room, that this has been a mistake. He could have hired someone to bring the picture across town or insisted that Mr. Wheeler send someone to fetch it for him since it was so valuable to him. It meant nothing to Will. He hadn’t even meant to sell it, but then the man had insisted, and well, Will could use the money. He needs paints that haven’t already dried on a canvas decades before he was even born, and if Murray was still here he would have surely done the same thing. He is sure of it.

But here he is, having caught a handsome to personally deliver the painting to the nice townhouse on the other side of London, obligated, now, to have supper with this man he barely knows because he seems to cave like a house of cards whenever the man insists on anything.

It’s the man’s colors, that haunt him. The pale skin, so white it’s almost translucent, combined with the soft darkness of his hair, falling long past his face in such an antiquated manner. The delicate nose, the cheekbones…Will is an artist, he should know beauty, has set it down in charcoals, watercolors and oils over and over for the history of the future to admire, and yet he has never come across a face so delicate, so attractive. He could paint it a hundred times and never tire of it. He could only paint this man for the rest of eternity and his soul would know no greater joy. Even he, never skilled with the hammer and the chisel, wants to carve marble replica after marble replica, wants to be the Pgymalion to this Galatea.

He is Helen and Will is all the suitors, already at war with himself at just the slightest glance.

The face waits for him at the head of the table, a glass of red wine before it and nothing else. Mr. Wheeler smiles, brilliant white teeth flashing sharply at Will as he stretches out a hand to gesture to the chair at his right. “Mr. Byers. Please, sit. James will be out with your supper in but a minute.” Will inclines his head and takes the seat offered to him. He’s noticed this particularity of the man before. Your supper, your peers, you English, as if he is exempt from it all. A foreigner in looks and manners, except one would never know from his speech, his English, although at times old-fashioned, is free from even a hint of an accent. And his name, too, hints more that his family has been in this country for centuries, and if the house and his clothes are any indication has even done rather well for itself.

True to his words, the butler is out with Will’s supper just a minute after he has taken his seat. It’s just a simple plate of soup with a side of still warm bread, but Will hadn’t realized how famished he is until the smell of the onion and carrot hits his nose. He takes up his cutlery, then looks to his host, lost because James had only brought out one set of plates and Mr. Wheeler seems not in a hurry to correct his servants mistake.

“Will you not be eating?” Will dares to ask.

Mr. Wheeler smiles, long white fingers playing with the stem of his glass. “My apologies for this rather bare display of hospitality. I am not a man of…much appetite. I never sup, but I felt it would be prudent not to offer such comforts as I could to my guest, so please do start before your soup cools and do not worry yourself about me.”

Will nods and, feeling a little awkward at it anyway, starts to eat, glad at it after the first bite warms his stomach and gives him something to do while he figures out a polite way to start a conversation.

Luckily his host has a greater appetite for talking than he has for food, and so before Will can make a fool of himself, he says: “I don’t believe I ever properly extended my condolences to you for the passing of your mentor. My father only briefly met the man and I never, but one hears things and I have seen some of Mr. Bauman’s work. It is a shame he has gone from us already.”

“Thank you,” Will says warmly. “It truly is a tragedy that his heart gave out so relatively early in life, and this after he had just begun settling down a little. I am very grateful for all that he has done for me, from apprenticing me to now, even in death, looking out for me by making me his sole heir.”

“He had no family then?”

Will gives a quiet laugh at the idea of Murray with a wife and children, as if anyone could have dragged him from his studio or the gentleman’s club he frequented – or from the bottle he so admired. “No, nor do I think Mr. Bauman ever planned on marrying. He had a rather...strong character, and being an artists wife is no easy feat on top of that.”

Mr. Wheeler nods as if he can imagine that, then turns his wineglass as he ponders something. Eventually he says: “You speak from experience then? Has Ophelia complained?”

Will pauses with his spoon to his mouth, taken aback by the question and the implication, needing to take a moment to even figure out what outlandish conclusion Mr. Wheeler had come to. “No,” he says quietly. “Oh, no, not at all. I thought you would have recognized her, but perhaps Mr. Sinclair had no time to introduce you to her, after all Miss Mayfield has been rather preoccupied since the beginning of her mother’s illness. But, no, Ophelia is but a dear friend of mine, and will soon be Mrs. Lucas Sinclair.”

“So there is no family for you, either?” Mr. Wheeler shifts in his seat, leaning forward just a little, as if Will’s answer is important somehow even though Will cannot fathom why. He hopes it is not because he has heard some lady or other make a comment which he is eager to share with Will or because Mr. Wheeler has some lady friend he would like to introduce to Will at his convenience.

“My mother and brother live in London, not so far away from me, but I have no family of my own, no,” Will says, preparing to fend any advances off with his usual arguments about the plight of poor artists and the unwillingness to subject any wife to his ungrateful life.

But Mr. Wheeler says nothing. He blinks a few times and then averts his eyes from Will to stare at his glass with the same intense furrow between his eyes with which he had regarded Will.

When Mr. Wheeler says nothing else, clearly not just contemplating something but having finished with the subject, Will clears his throat and broaches the only polite topic he can think of: “The portrait of your great grandfather’s must have meant a great deal to you, to go to such lengths to acquire it.”

Mr. Wheeler smiles, shaken from his reverie. “He was a man that did a lot of traveling, but he left a lot of things in a lot of places, none of which were wise and none of which benefit his family, now.”

Will nods. “So the painting is to fill up an ancestral family gallery that he desperately tried to avoid in life.”

Mr. Wheeler chuckles. “Ancestral is perhaps too grand a word. But yes, it is meant to come with me to Silverlake Manor, which has been in the family’s possession since my great grandfather’s time and where it will likely find a place in the gallery.”

“And you’ll be returning there shortly?”

Mr. Wheeler blinks. “Have signs of my packing already made it into the parlor?”

Will ducks his head sheepishly as he places the cutlery back next to his now empty plate. “No, not in the slightest. My apologies, I did not mean to insinuate such unprofessional conduct of your staff. No, I simply inferred it by the fact that most people rarely come to London in the summer and you probably only planned to stay as long as it took you to conclude your business. After all, what use is a country house if one does not spend their time there in the summer, when there is lots of fresh air to be had, and sunshine.”

Mr. Wheeler laughs, loud and sudden, as if he had not meant to make a noise at all but could not contain himself. It’s a musical sound, altogether pleasant to the ear, and it seems precious, to Will, so that having evoked it sends his heart fluttering.

When he has composed himself again, his host says: “My apologies. It just reminded me of something a dear friend of mine once said to me.”

“No apologies necessary,” Will assures him. He moves his chair back to indicate that he is done and takes a long look at the darkness visible outside of the window just behind Mr. Wheeler.

His host is quick on the uptake. “I hope supper was to your liking. Should I ring for James to fetch you some more?”

“It was, thank you very much. But no, I think I have had enough. And I believe I should be off soon, too.”

Something flickers in Mr. Wheeler’s eyes, and his jaw clenches, barely perceptible. Before Will has time to wonder how he managed to offend the man, it is gone, replaced, again, by that unnerving smile. “Of course. You probably have a lot of appointments to take care of tomorrow? I heard all of London is abuzz about the prodigal apprentice of the late Mr. Bauman.”

“Thank you, but no, not that I know of, no. It’s possible that I will arrive to a number of calling cards having been left with my housekeeper and there will probably be inquiries enough tomorrow morning. But at the moment I have no clients and my only work is finishing my Ophelias.”

Mr Wheeler is quiet longer than Will would assume it would take to form a response to that statement, but considering how intently Mr. Wheeler stares at his glass of wine Will also feels apprehensive of simply continuing talking. When he finally speaks, the amused aloofness seems to have fled the man completely: “Please do not take my saying so the wrong way, but I believe that should be considered a blessing. Talent like yours should not be squandered on portraits and miniatures.”

Will laughs, surprised: “That is kind of you to say. The Ophelias have let me transition from my old workshop to Murray’s without hurry and with relative ease, but ever artist must earn his keep, I am afraid.”

“What would you draw if you did not have to?”

The question takes Will aback. He bites his tongue to keep that first, instinctual reply inside of his mouth: You. But Mr. Wheeler does not need to know of the pages of Will’s sketchbook that his countenance already fills, and he must even less know of the way Will will render this evening in sharp contrasts until his fingers are stained as black as the bags under his eyes from drawing all night.

He pretends to consider his glass of wine, then answers slowly: “I would perhaps compliment the Ophelia series. There are a...few scenes from Hamlet that I would still like to render, set her warmth apart from the prince with cold tones and deep contrasts. I might also- I think I would render more tragic ladies. If I am to find myself a Clytemnestra, a Desdemona , an Antigone one day. But I have no plans.”

“Mr. Sinclair as Hamlet, perhaps?”

Will laughs. “I have sketched him as Othello, once, but perhaps a Hamlet, sure. Although I think a paler model would work better with the cold tones I envision. But I have no time as it stands, so I do not think this is a serious consideration.”

Again Mr. Wheeler is quiet for a long moment, again Will stills, unwilling to interrupt him. It gives him time to study him, to commit to memory the features he is sure he will not see again for a long time. Perhaps he will need no model for Hamlet. Perhaps, also, he will keep Hamlet to himself, to worship in private.

When Mr. Wheeler speaks next, Will is ill prepared for his suggestion. Leaning forward, his host begins: “William – may I call you that? May we be William and Michael to one another?” He smiles, a small, much more delicate thing than the ones before, when Will nods his agreement. “William,” he says, seeming to find joy in the name. “What would you say about accompanying me to Silverlake Manor? You’d have plenty of time to draw then, and the quiet to do excellent work – I promise, I myself will not be taking up your time and neither will there be many visitors aside from Miss Hopper, who I can also vouch for will not bother you too much, although she might ask you to teach her a thing or two. She renders an excellent still life, but her people are still rather abstract creatures.”

Will swallows, again, and averts his eyes, playing with his glass of wine. The idea is spontaneous but not unwelcome: At Silverlake he would be free to do as he pleases without having many expenses, living at the cost of Mr. Wheeler’s hospitality. He sure that whatever companionship he would have to offer in return for such would not detract too greatly from his time, at the very least less so than commissions for portraits would. And perhaps he might convince Mr. Wheeler to play his Hamlet, at least for one work, even if it will never leave Silverlake – the sudden need to paint him like this, to put to canvas the vision his earlier question had inspired, has his fingertips itching. He already knows which blues he wants to use, what scene he wants to paint.

He’ll need to finish one of his Ophelias, leave it for Dustin to sell, and take the others with him to make sure there will be enough income to keep the atelier and the apartment above it. But he should be able to make this work.

And he wants to make it work. It’s a dangerous desire but he wants more chances to study this face, wants to get to know this strange man better, thinks that with time perhaps they could become friends, and while Will’s heart warns him of becoming friends with such a man, lest his infatuations turn to worse and he leaves Silverlake with shattered hopes and worse prospects than he had arrived, he cannot help but want.

“That would-” he starts, then clears his throat to buy himself a moment to find more appropriate phrasing. “I would be honored to be your guest and meet Miss Hopper – and to teach her, if she so desires. I believe if she is anything like you, her friend, she would make wonderful company and Silverlake should make for an excellent environment to work in.”

Mr. Wheeler – Michael – rises with a small, happy smile, but pauses with his hand already on the bell on the table behind him, some thought, some reservation, perhaps, making him delay with a frown. “You never commented on it. You have a keen eye, and people with less talent or tact certainly have noticed, and they will not shut up about what a gift inheriting my great-grandfather’s features must be for me.”

“I did not see the need to repeat merely what everyone else has already said. The resemblance is close and it certainly must be a gift, but I did not get the impression you required such shallow flattery.”

Michael laughs again, happily, and Will’s heart issues another warning at the way he feels his cheeks heat at the joy of having given the right answer, at being the cause for such happiness: Already he teeters on the edge of infatuation and something else, a boundary he should not cross. But Michael rings the bell, summoning his servant, and Will forgets caution as a summer in the country beckons.

“James, Mr. Byers has just agreed to accompany me to Silverlake. He’ll be leaving with me in the morning, ask his housekeeper to pack for him and then make sure you have his paints and paintings sent after us. We don’t want to separate the artist from his tools, after all.” Will freezes at the quickness of these plans and the predatory precision with which Michael steps away from the bell, back towards the table, back to where Will is sitting, without even so much as glancing at him. “Also send word to Jane that we will have company. And prepare a bed for Mr. Byers, upstairs, please. I have decided to take a little supper after all.”

James’s mouth twitches darkly, but he bows and takes his leave to do as he is bidden.

Will swallows hard as Michael reaches him, and extending his long white fingers, traces the line from his temple down across his cheek and to the point of his chin. Up until then the two of them had never touched beyond shaking hands, and Will feels a shiver run down his spine, settling coldly at the base of it, at the cool touch. His heart screams out a loud warning, but his body, treacherous and needy, is torn on whether to obey.

“Your heartbeat is racing,” Michael observes, tone matter of fact.

Will tries to wet his tongue to answer, finding his mouth dry out as his heart jumps up to start beating in his throat, and wonders how loud it must be that the man standing next to him can hear it.

Michael smiles apologetically. “If I have overwhelmed you, I apologize. I know this is…quite spontaneous, but I am afraid I cannot delay my return much longer and there is a certain…procedure for things.”

Will opens his mouth to start formulating the objection: He could have simply followed behind a day or two, gotten his affairs in order on his own and not interfere with whatever particularities Michael is so intent on. But then Michael’s hand finds his shoulder, settling on it heavy and as if they have done this a million times before, and all Will can do is keep breathing.

“Are you scared?” Michael asks, letting go of him only to pull his chair around the table to take a seat right next to Will and then encircling his wrist with icy fingers. With his other hand he begins rolling up Will’s sleeve.

For a moment Will can’t move, neither to nod or shake his head, too preoccupied with the way his stomach tenses at Michael’s advances and his body decides to smother his heart’s final warnings: He had not been aware that this would be part of the deal, that the invitation to join him at Silverlake must have been as much Michael reflecting Will’s own infatuation and desire as it had been his idealism about Will’s art, and suddenly the situation is much more delicate. He can say no, of course, but if he nods now, says that he is scared, even if it would be the truth, the retreat will be final and complete; There will be no Silverlake for Will, nor will he see Michael again.

So, he shakes his head.

When Michael smiles it’s an open mouthed, wide thing, showing off his teeth – baring his teeth, especially the set of long and sharp canines that Will swears had not been there before. Michael pulls Will’s empty plate in front of him and then holds Will’s bared arm above it.

The last objection Will might have had, that James is sure to return with Micheal’s supper any second and they should perhaps take care not to let his servant see, dies in his throat as he realizes what Michael had meant with supper.

“You’re lying,” Michael says and then presses his cold lips to the inside of Will’s arm. His teeth graze the skin that feels suddenly delicate and precious, only more so when his hand finds Will’s and folds it into a fist.

He pulls back a little, eyes meeting Will’s intensely, wordlessly conveying all that will happen unless Will objects now, his last chance to retreat. But Will doesn’t want to object, cannot object, can do nothing but watch, breathless, his stomach tight with apprehension, wondering stupidly how much of a boundary he’d cross if he reached out and petted Michael’s hair as he leans down to press a delicate kiss to Will’s wrist.

And then Michael bites him.

Will understands, then, why it had mattered that he had said nothing about the painting. He understands, too, why his master’s master had been so enamored with it, why it had been displayed so lovingly in his studio without offering it up to the public. Understands the burden of the secret he is swearing, with his blood, to keep: It had never been Michael’s great-grandfather, for such a man had been dead for centuries, if not millennia. No, the portrait had been his own, a picture of a man from that dark species whose existence Will had only believed in as part of that same superstitious belief that people who believed in fortune telling and telepathy peddled; and now here he sat, his arm offered up, voluntarily and reverentially, to a vampire.

Will gasps when Michael bites him, and it’s only on the second deep breath he takes around the pain in his arm that he realizes it’s not all pain. It’s a sweet sensation, relief of the tightness in his stomach, relief of the tension between the two of them. There’s pleasure in the bite, the likes of which Will only knows from a few glasses of wine too many or the cheap whiskey Lucas is fond of bringing with him when he comes to visit. He’s spellbound by the way Michael’s jaw moves as he sucks on Will’s arm, lips ruby with the blood he’s taking, that gift Will is offering up and so he can only think of running his hands through Michael’s hair, encouraging him as he feeds.

He thinks, too, of those poor souls in the East End, caught in fever dreams inside of their opium dens, slaves to an addiction most of them had not started willingly, the rest of their lives given over to the drug, burning out at a rapid pace as their souls are consumed by want, want, want.

And he knows that this is his own personal Whitechapel.

Michael’s teeth settle against Will’s tender skin as he continues to drink from the small wounds they have made. It’s a strange sensation to feel his blood pumping through his veins, to feel every heavy heartbeat as his body tries to account for the life leaving him, tries to balance out the bleeding even as it can’t stop it because Michael keeps drawing it out. Will thinks he likes it.

It’s over too soon, Michael pulling away with a desperate gasp before licking the wound and his arm clean. Blood wells up in the wake of his tongue anyway, circling Will’s wrist like a glittering armband and dripping onto the table, only reluctantly closing up until Michael draws blood from his own thumb with his teeth and paints it over the bite mark. Will’s skin goes cold and numb for a moment, then sensation returns with a sharp heat as the vampire’s superior healing powers mingle for a few seconds with his blood and the puncture wounds close up. Michael uses Will’s napkin to clean his arm, until no trace of the last few minutes remains at all.

Will wants to tell him to stop.

If he had a voice, still, he might have. He’d tell him he wants the marks, wants to have physical proof of tonight, of the bite and the heady feeling that accompanied it. Because inside of him there will be a scar, this memory forever burned into his soul, even as his skin smooths out and what used to be angry red turns pale white.

Michael looks at him from under long dark eyelashes, and Will understands now why he’s wearing red in the painting, understands the thing that had unnerved him in the beginning, the color that had been missing: it’s there in his lips, on his lips, his chin, his teeth. It reflects in the deep brown of his eyes, looking fully now, no longer half lidded, shy, but intense and predatory, no longer needing to hide his intentions.

He will later say that it was the blood loss that has made him careless and lightheaded. It might be a lie, but he knows, that Michael will never ask, that it doesn’t matter. Reaching up with his still healing arm he cups Michael’s face, swipes at the blood on his chin, and then kisses him.

Michael’s lips are no longer as cold as they had been against his wrist, warmed by Will’s blood, and he tastes of it, metallic and a little bitter. Will has tasted his own blood before, suckling on cuts on his fingers to quell the bleeding, but this is different, this is more intense and more intimate. It’s the only taste in his mouth now, no sweat, no skin, just the cold taste of wet copper on his lips, his tongue, and, when he swallows, his throat.

Michael opens his mouth, gasping into this kiss, and then Will is drowning in his own blood, in the heat of hungry lips on his. And still he cannot pull away, cannot stop himself. Michael’s hands are in his hair, tugging him closer, greedy. His canines, still long and sharp, brush against Will’s lip and he half expects him to bite down and ask for more because he’s starving just as much as Will.

Will wants him to bite down, to drink until there’s nothing left, gladly accepting death if it meant satiating a fraction of that bottomless, hungry pit in his stomach that he knows, now, exists in Michael too.

But Michael, unlike him, has been fed, and so he can drag himself away. He presses his forehead against Will’s and breathes him in with sharp, greedy breaths, then uses his grip on Will’s hair to push him down, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, when Will tries to chase after him.

“Enough, love,” he says, and with that one word he has Will in the palm of his hand, ready to do whatever he asks of him as long as he will hear it again. “I will have you bloodied, yet, but not tonight.”

It’s this promise that keeps Will where he is as Michael pulls back properly, his fingers slowly uncurling from his hair, his breathing still ragged. Dark strands of hair hang in his face and with blood smeared around his mouth, he looks like a wild thing, looks as shaken by the kiss as Will feels, and somehow that steadies him, to know this thing of the night shares his feelings.

He watches Will swallow with wide, wondrous eyes. “Will,” he says softly. “My love, Will.”

“Mike,” Will whispers, finding his voice far more gone than he anticipated but needing to stake his claim with a name as well. “Darling, Mike.”

Michael’s face lights up when Will says his name like that, as if it’s something special, as if Will’s petty human claim means anything at all to someone so ancient. His smile, sharp teethed and bloody as it is, is the warmest, most genuine one he has given Will all evening. And it feels special.

Mike uses his thumb to wipe away the blood around Will’s mouth, the soft pad of it brushing his lips, and Will can only watch him, stilled. The urge to take it into his mouth, to bite down, bite Mike back, settles unacted upon in his jaw: He will have him bloodied, yet, but not tonight.

“Are you alright?” Mike asks, his hand cupping Will’s face lightly, but the fingers pressing against his skin warn him not to turn away, not to lie.

He swallows and replies with still uneven voice: “Yes.”

His heart beats hard in his chest, but Mike doesn’t call him out on being a liar, and Will, too, doesn’t think he did lie: It doesn’t feel wrong, the blood, the man in front of him, the hunger.

He turns his face into the palm holding it and presses his lips to the fingers. Then he runs his tongue along the bloodied digits. Licks himself off them.

Mike gasps, then pulls his fingers away from Will’s hungry mouth. He brushes a shaking hand through Will’s hair, as if tying to undo the damage he had done to it during the kiss, then gives up and sits back in his chair, removing himself from Will’s reach. His eyes never leave Will’s face, though, tracking him with renewed intensity and doing nothing to calm Will’s heart racing in his chest.

Then Mike says: “You should head to bed. Make the most of the night while it still belongs to you. We keep a different schedule at Silverlake.” Will doesn’t want to rise to his feet, but there is something in Mike’s tone that has his body obeying regardless. Those that believed in the undead sometimes believed they had the power to force others to do their bidding, and Will idly wonders if that is true or if he simply rises because of Mike’s natural charms and his own exhaustion. His body knows better than his heart, which now that it had gotten a taste, wants nothing but to bleed out onto the dining room floor.

Still, even as he crosses the room, taking slow steps as the blood loss leaves him lightheaded, he can’t stop himself from looking back, Orpheus losing Eurydice over and over again except if he is Orpheus then rather than leading his muse out of the underworld Will is going to join her in the eternal dark. And with every glance he finds Eurydice looking back, beckoning him to join her.

The last time their eyes meet that evening, Mike runs his finger along the edge of the plate, where some of Will’s blood has fallen. When he sees that he is caught, Mike takes his time licking his finger clean and Will’s stomach tenses in response with only the desperate yearning of his head for a pillow keeping him standing where he is instead of running back for more.

And he’s hit with the sudden, giddy realization that there’s a chance he won’t make it out of this summer alive.

Previous Prompt < View Collection on Ao3 > Next Prompt

written for @bylerween2023

[rubylarkspur22]

IDK if someone has done it before but here's a KNY AU Idea: everything is the same but Tanjiro is the younger brother and Nezuko is the older sister.

I actually know a page who has already done that AU! Or at least some art for it! If you wanna check it out, the blog is @2demon2slayer. It's a ways down, I think, but you should be able to find it in the asks or art tag(or right here!). I would highly recommend their blog, they do some cool AUs! But I'm also up to doing my version! :)

So! Nezuko as the big sister. She'd probably still spend most of her time at home, helping her mother. However, she'd probably fuss a lot more over Tanjirou since he's her little brother here. And she'd probably help deliver charcoal every once in a while. But she's still at home when Muzan attacks.

Now, we go to the aftermath of the attack. Instead of trying to run away from Giyuu when he shows up, Nezuko immediately jumps to the defensive. Because someone attacked her little brother, and she has to protect him where she couldn't protect the others. At first, Giyuu considers it a ploy to guard her food and attacks. At some point, he nicks Tanjirou without meaning to, and Nezuko does not take well to seeing her last surviving sibling bleeding. So she attacks Giyuu, only to disarm, then puts herself between him and Tanjirou. Giyuu is stunned when Nezuko doesn't so much as glance at the tiny drop of blood where he nicked Tanjirou, something any other demon would be lunging to devour before a person could blink. And thus, he chooses to spare her.

After Giyuu vanishes, things would be different on a psychological level for our heroes. Tanjirou, the second eldest here, is suddenly thrown into a protector role for the one sibling who always protected him. After burying their family, Tanjirou notices Nezuko crying. The two comfort each her before leaving their home behind.

After that, Nezuko is a lot more protective towards Tanjirou and his friends and aggressive towards threats compared to canon. To the point she'll carry Tanjirou when he's injured and try to switch out with him in fights. Tanjirou, on the other hand, while still feeling bad about his sister having to fight his battles at times, is more than used to her doing so as a human. He knows Nezuko's a protective big sister, and his biggest fear about her safety is the sun.

Nezuko's protective nature as a big sister could possibly lead to her conquering the sun as early as the Tsuzumi Mansion Arc. Definitely the Hashira trial, at the latest. The second her brother cries out in pain, Nezuko's throwing Sanemi at Obanai and picking up Tanjirou, searching with the obvious intent to flee if any of the Hashira so much as twitch to unsheathe their weapons. It's Mitsuri who mediates, quickly recognizing a fellow big sister and informing her fellow Hashira that Nezuko is just protecting her little brother. This shocks everyone except Giyuu, as they thought Tanjirou was the older of the two. It's also pointed out that Nezuko didn't so much as spare a glance to Sanemi(an extremely potent Marechi) or Kagaya(the head of the Corps) in her mad dash for Tanjirou.

While Tanjirou recovers, Nezuko checks up on him constantly. And she definitely tests her BDA a little more, to see how long it would take for her to reduce a demon to ashes if she needed to. If Tanjirou's sword breaks again, she doesn't want to risk being too far from help putting her little brother in danger. If she can kill he demon herself, that's less time waiting for help and trying to keep the demon(s) away from Tanjirou.

Mugen Train goes the same, if only with a little more intent on Nezuko bleeding from the headbutt. And I can see her immediately going to square up on Enmu before Tanjirou even knocks out the assistants. "Nezuko, where'd you go?" "To f*** up the demon responsible for this!" "Nezuko, please! He's gonna put you to sleep!" "And whose Blood Demon Art woke ya up?" "... I'll protect the others..." "I think I spilled some blood in there, see if tossing the tickets in the fire does anything." "Worth a try, I guess..." *a few minutes later, Nezuko returns* "Nezuko! Did you kill it?" "Train's a demon." "What?" *Nezuko stabs herself repeatedly with one of the awls the assistants had* "Train's a demon. You're better equipped to handle this." "Why?!" "I can't burn a whole a** train to ashes!"

Then Akaza shows up. And immediately has to catch fiery hands after he tries to cave Tanjirou's skull in. Oh, he doesn't fight women? Easier for Nezuko to whoop his sorry backside from here to kingdom come! And she is ready to make him hurt. Akaza barely escapes the sun by ripping three out of four limbs off and booking it on one leg. And he still got a sword through the chest from Tanjirou. (Does Nezuko ever find out who stabbed Tanjirou? For the conductor's sake, let's hope Tanjirou hopes not...) Rengoku lives thanks to Nezuko Kamado being a feral gremlin and a protective big sister.

While they're all healing, Nezuko eventually learns about how Tanjirou woke himself up, and Inosuke tells her that Tanjirou almost killed himself in real life. After that, Nezuko refuses to let Tanjirou sleep with his sword in the room and without supervision. It leads to a conversation about his dreams, and that ends with the siblings in a tight hug and crying. Nezuko is crying quietly, and Tanjirou is sobbing with his entire chest(after a little pushing from Nezuko to let it out).

In the RLD Arc, Gyutaro also assumes Tanjirou's the older sibling. Then Nezuko wakes up like "B****?! You insult my baby brother, and then you beat him up?!" Before that, however, she gives Daki hell on Earth. Does she go as berserk as canon? Debatable, I'll leave that up to you. Hell, maybe Nezuko squares up from the second Tanjirou gets that massive gash in his shoulder. Tanjirou still ends up injured enough for a two month coma(thanks, poison...).

At some point, I can see Nezuko borderline demanding she learn how to use a sword. Blood arson only does so much, it's time for drastic measures. Arson sword. Everyone is in utter fear when Nezuko finds out how to make Exploding Blood Sword. Mostly because of the deranged cackling coming from the courtyard of the Butterfly Mansion, followed by declarations that Muzan Kibutsuji can suck it because she has a BDA and a sword. (That's how they find out Nezuko broke the Curse!) (Muzan feels a shiver down his spine)

Thus, Nezuko participates in the slicing and dicing in the Swordsmith Village. And Yoriichi Type Zero training. During which she likely makes Kotetsu fear for his life after the scolding he gets for starving and dehydrating Tanjirou to near death. Nezuko probably just casually stabs herself with all the nearby swords, much to Tanjirou's horror. And then she lights the swords on fire. Try and heal instantly from that, emotion clones!

Hashira Training is the same. Nezuko does some training with Shinjurou, Tengen, and Urokodaki in their hiding spot with Kiriya, Kuina, and Kanata. In case demons come after her(or she needs to go fight Muzan), now that Muzan knows she's not allergic to the sun. Then she gets the antidote, much to her chagrin.

She wakes up earlier than in canon, her Big Sister Senses going off all over the place(Tanjirou just got his eye sliced out...). Thus, she is off like a shot with her dad guiding her. And arrives just in time to watch Tanjirou collapse while choking on his own blood. No one notices her until Yushiro spots her while desperately trying to get Tanjirou away from the Sanzu River. After a thorough scolding, Nezuko just lights Tanjirou on fire. He's still half-blind, but he's not poisoned! (Yushiro: How'd you know that would work? Nezuko: I've burned poisons out of people before. Yushiro: ... Why am I not surprised?)

At some point in the fight, after burning poison out of several Slayers, Nezuko passes out from using up her demonic cells. Muzan tries to take the opportunity to devour her, but is foiled by everyone else. The sun rises, Tanjirou delivers the final blow at the cost of his arm, and gets turned into a demon. Is he conscious for it? Probably, he isn't poisoned and the blood loss from his arm being blasted off is very fresh. Only reason he doesn't try to get away is shock from the aforementioned blood loss and missing arm. Nezuko wakes up to Tanjirou attacking everyone, in broad daylight without a burn in sight, and promptly dives in. She impulsively shoves her arm into Tanjirou's mouth, getting bit in the process. By some miracle, his fangs miss anything that would cause fatal blood loss. Then Nezuko starts screaming for her little brother to come back, demanding Kibutsuji let him go, anything to at least keep her brother distracted until a solution appears. Thankfully, Kanao is able to help, and everything turns out okay.

While Tanjirou recovers from his short time as a demon, and Nezuko readjusts to being human, she talks to everyone. She and Sanemi bond over their shared trauma. Giyuu tells her about Tsutako, and she tells him she'd do the same for Tanjirou in a heartbeat. She chats with all the other survivors. Then she gets to Zenitsu. The two reintroduce themselves, get reacquainted, and Nezuko politely(but also firmly) requests he not call her his wife until they actually get engaged.

Later, she overhears Aoi and Kanao talking about Tanjirou. She hears Aoi mention she like Tanjirou, but won't let her feelings get in the way of Kanao finally being genuinely happy for the first time in her life. Nezuko chimes in, and their chatter drifts from boys to other mundane topics.

After they return home, Nezuko practically takes over the family charcoal business. It involves a few squabbles. ("Nezuko, I only have one arm crippled! I can handle it! You don't need to do everything!" "One crippled arm is one arm too many, young man!" "You haven't aged in three years, doesn't that mean I'm the older sibling, now?" "Don't use that excuse, mister! I still came out of the womb first, so shut up and let me handle it!") All in all, though, everything turns out okay.

[thebearthatreads]

April Fools Reverse Write Game (I know I'm super late)

So @maskedemerald tagged me for this way back in April and well my schedule and life have been chaotic the last few months so I'm only getting to it now - my apologies.

Rules: Write a scene from your WIP or in your WIPs setting where the character's roles are reversed! Make it as short or as long as you like! Then tag some people! Don't forget to tell us a little about the original roles too!

WIP: Chimera

For the sake of ease I'm using Ginny and Adrian from Chimera. In the original version of the story Ginny is a chimera (mixed race witch with multiple mythical creatures mixed into her lineage) on the run from a creature specialist. Adrian is said creature specialist's adopted son, a warlock with no training, who is trying to prove himself.

But what if Adrian was the chimera and Ginny the creature specialist's child?

A very different story would unfold

Dad's been making a lot of trips lately, leaving me in Charity's care. It's tedious and frankly should probably be considered abuse... but I do my best to make it more of a torture for the ghoul than for me.

"Want to help paint my nails?" I snigger as Charity wrinkles her nose, for all her ghastly threats nothing gets under her skin like treating her as if she was human. "No? Guess, I'll just do it myself. Right here, in the middle of the room."

"Suit yourself." She's seething, stalking off to presumably chew on a leg in the basement or something. Another win for me.

I pay careful attention to the click of her nails against the tiles, staying still as possible until I'm sure of her destination. Nimbly tip toeing after her I pull the basement door shut, locking it with a satisfying click.

She's going to be mad. Fuming, foaming at the mouth probably. I can hear her gnashing her teeth as she stampedes back up the stairs, but I'm not sticking around waiting for her to find a way to free herself.

"I'll be back for supper, don't fret."

Casually I leave the house, setting out for the train station and a quick foray into the city. These little escapes have to be relished, I can't make them too frequently as Charity would start to catch onto my escape plans. And I know just the place to enjoy my freedom.

-

Slipping my rose tinted sunglasses down over my nose I enjoy the sight of varied creatures intermingling with the population from the observation point. The botanical gardens are a great place to witness the thriving magical community present within Brisbane, you never know what you'll see...

All though, is that? Surely, it couldn't be?

Splashing his feather rimmed face in a fountain is a boy with deep ash grey skin. Bright splotchy yellow scales pepper his arms, and if my eyes aren't deceiving me there's a tuft of charcoal fur poking up from the back of his neck.

Well knock me dead, unless I'm poorly mistaken that's an actual chimera out in the wild. And what a fine specimen he is, a peek of chiseled muscle just visible as he dries his face in his singlet.

Dad would be absolutely beside himself if he knew there was a chimera in Brisbane, in his line of work they're a prize too precious to turn down. Unfortunately for dad I don't wholly agree with the ethics of his work, and this poor lamb looks like he's taken enough hard knocks as it is.

Sliding from my seat, I carefully approach the chimera.

"Excuse me, but your glamour could probably use a bit more work if you're planning to stay in Brisbane."

His shoulders jolt, I've startled him. Slowly he turns to me, big purple eyes wide with panic.

"Don't worry, I'm not looking to hurt you. Just offering a little advice, there's some nasty types in this city you'd do well to avoid. Creature specialist and ghouls, I'm sure you know what bad news they are."

After Thoughts

This would be a hard story to write, Ginny without her chimera heritage and her ability to see death omens is almost an entirely different person whereas Adrian with those traits would still be riddled with anxiety and fear. Instead of enemies to lovers they'd realistically probably just have this one interaction then go their separate ways. The roles they have in Chimera are more than just roles. Still it was fun to give this a try!

Gently tagging (no-pressure): @keysandopenmind, @kelefox, @the-aranea-chronicles, and any one else who might want to play!

[lee-jinkis-ponytail]

@comerainxcomeshine thank you for tagging me! This is just what I needed to warm my typing up before sitting down for a good writing sesh. ^^ (PS I *love* your username, Sunny Side is one of the best Japanese SHINee songs!!!)

Tea, coffee, or soda? I love all three, but I have had to cut pop out of my diet because it fucks with my stomach, and coffee does too if I drink it too often, so I only let myself have it a couple times a month. So, tea.

Dogs or cats? I'm much more of a cat person, but dogs are ok usually.

Can you play an instrument? I took piano lessons for 10 years, and can still play some of the songs I played obsessively (mostly Vanessa Carlton songs).

What's your sun sign? Uhhh is that just... ur regular astrological sign? I'm a capricorn??? Idk the difference between sun/moon/rising/all those.

First song lyrics that came into your head. I'm currently listening to Save a Kiss by Jessie Ware, so those ones!

Do you have any tattoos? Yep, a dragon climbing a castle on my arm, a cat on my foot, a thistle on my ankle, and an HP/LOTR/Narnia tattoo on my back (I'm getting the HP aspect of it covered up as soon as I have the money, because fuck JKR).

Favorite place you've traveled. Scotland and Quebec City.

What’s the last movie you watched? I think it was Willy's Wonderland? That Nic Cage FNaF spoof.

What languages do you speak? English is my native language, but I've been teaching myself Korean for ~2-3 years, and I'm at a conversational level.

Do you have any hobbies? Sketching (primarily pencil and charcoal), cross-stitching, learning choreos/zumba, studying Korean, reading, writing.

You can hang out with one fictional character for an hour. Who do you choose? One of my own OCs. Probably Cher from the book I have coming out this year, The World As It Should Be. :D

Compliment yourself. I have a good understanding of myself and am proud of who I've become.

I think I'll refrain from tagging anyone for now, but if you wanna do this, obviously consider urself tagged!

[doxiedreg]

Also if you've noticed I'm tagging stuff less when I reblog it's just because I don't have much brainpower to leave comments anymore

My brain is like sizzling like a hamburger that should probably be flipped because smoke is starting to come of.

Today I cleaned the fishtank and found a slimy mass on one of the filter sponges that was probably the other missing lambchop rasbora so hhhhhh. Also again since it was a big clean and I had to move stuff and gravel vac the fish again got really stressed out. Did a 50 percent change and I think the fish are a lil more lively? Water is still foaming quite a lot so I will try changing out the charcoal tomorrow to hopefully get the medication out faster. One of the Corys is also doing weird rolls sometimes so I'm guessing they still have skin or gill worms which means I'll need to do another cure in 3 days..I don't really want to..it's clearly rough on the fish and I kinda want my tank to recover for a bit first. Just ugh, I'm still so worried about my lil guys..they are super skittish now too since I've done many intense cleans lately so augh

Lemon, big orange and the lil male that I think I'll name Calico are still alive.

Big orange is the healthiest, I'm seeing healthy poops and I think she is less bloated?

Lemon is still very pregnant and I can see the lil eyeballs of the fry again so maybe the worms were clouding it up before? She is a lil wobbly when she swims sometimes but I'm guessing that's because she is very overdue for labor and she is just very uncomfortable. At least she and Calico aren't rubbing themselves against plants anymore but they are very shy and skittish and hide behind the plants. Calico's eyes also don't look swollen anymore from what I can see so I'm glad that resolved itself.

*sigh* I just want my lil guys to be okay. I'll have to get some more lambchop rasboras to raise their number back to 10 or more so they feel more secure but I don't know if I'll get a new platy to replace small orange. It appears livebearers are just really susceptible to worms?? Or at least it feels like that since the other fish are mostly healthy.

Fishtanks are fun and very pretty and relaxing to look at but boy they can be a lot of stress :(

[gaitwae]

Ohh! Can you write something for thor where you comfort him after the snap and he sometimes comes over at your place to sleep because he can’t sleep alone and cries to you ineedsomeangstplease

Warnings: mentions of the snappening/blip/thanos being a jerk.

Summary: Above!

Word count: 781

Tags: @make-me-imagine @thorfanficwriter @bwemph @myraiswack @rorybutnotgilmore @loki-snape-our-hero @wolfish-trickster @lucywrites02 @mostly-marvel-musings @winterfrostsarmy @superheroesandstardust @castiels-majestic-wings @geekns @natandersonnla @cozy-the-overlord @megthemewlingquim @frostedgiant @whatafuckingdumbass @thebookbakery @delightfulheartdream @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @the-emo-asgardian @amwolowicz @itscomplicatedx @sophlubbwriting @darkacademicfrom2021​ @lilyofthesword

Thor would sometimes come over. It was just a thing. It happened. It wasn’t a big deal, and it wasn’t anything uncomfortable for you. Sometimes, he just needed to keep nightmares away.

He never said the words “nightmares,” exactly, but just said, “They’re only dreams... Anyway, I brought a keg!” and then run into your living room to avoid the real reason he had stopped by. 

The two of you weren’t exactly involved, not the way that Tony or Steve or Nat would probably guess. The love between you, it was unspoken and stayed that way. You didn’t need verbal confirmation that Thor trusted you above anyone else, and he didn’t need you to say the words “I love you,” when just being there for him said it already. 

Chaste kisses were exchanged at the door, and that was about as involved as you two got. 

You and Thor had bonded over the past three years, since the Snap, since the Blip. You could tell your friend was just as raw has he had been, but he was learning to take care of it.

His hair grew out over time. His belly was softer, but he was watching his nutrition. Something about “A healthy body leads to a healthy mind.” Often, he would bemoan and complain about how his once godly six pack looked flabby, but you assured him a little skin was nothing to worry about. He was doing great. He was at least trying. You reminded him that brushing your teeth once a day was better than not doing it at all.

Thor would smile, take your hands, and pull you into a hug. It wasn’t the real problem, the belly fat, but it was a different way to say you loved him.

More often, Thor would come over at night. It was usually after the clouds rolled in that you knew he was having a hard time dealing with the reminders of Loki, of Heimdall, of the other half of Asgard he couldn’t save... Of the half of the world that didn’t exist anymore. 

He would come knocking on your door like the sky was falling. You knew the drill. You grabbed whatever blanket you could and brought him inside, petting his hair and taking him to the bed. He would grip you tightly, sobbing into your shoulder and talking about how he wished the hurt would go away, how he was so grateful for you, how he should have told his brother he cared more often.

Eventually, Thor only came to your place to sleep. He moved his things in. He kept his belongings next to yours and he was a decent roommate. He couldn’t sleep without you. He needed to know you weren’t some sort of trick his mind had conjured up. He needed to know you wouldn’t disappear.

It was taking time, but Thor was gradually loosening up. His fear was melting away. He took to doing Midgardian things, even some (to the neighbors, possibly to you) odd things, like putting peanut butter on pancakes and drinking tomato juice out of a coffee mug. He would pick up painting and charcoal drawing. When the Avengers needed him, he would still save the day. He would feel like a hero again. Like he was worthy, again. You told him how he was always worthy, no matter what. 

“Funny,” he would muse, “Jane used to say that, too... But it was always after a night together. Never over pancakes and peanut butter.”

He never spoke of Jane after that. He just held your hand and told you, just before bed, how you were his hero. Never “I love you,” just “You’re the finest warrior,” “You’re the bravest,” “You save me every day, my darling.”

Until one particularly bad nightmare. 

He hadn’t had one in months. The thrashing was what woke you. You turned over, pulled him out of bed, and gave him some soup or hot chocolate to calm him down. He was shaking like mad. He wouldn’t tell you what he had seen, but he wouldn’t let you go too far without knowing what you were up to.

“Be careful,” he would tell you in a grave voice. He would search your eyes with his big, red, wet ones. “I love you. I can’t lose you.”

“I love you, too, Thor,” you said honestly. “Now, please... Let me take care of you, you big baby. Drink your cup and let me get some movies.”

He nodded. “You always know how to make me feel better...”

“That’s because I’m yours,” you teased. You kissed his forehead. He leaned into you, sighing deeply. 

“Thank you for being mine.”

[kyidyl]

Kyidyl Does Archaeology - Part 4

(As before, if you’re only seeing this part 4, the rest of them have the tag KyidylCL)

THE ARTEFACTS

Ok, so I’ve talked about the site and what we’ve been digging in and such, but I’m gonna be honest with you guys: I like lab work exponentially more than field work.  So I am the one who has been processing the vast majority of the finds and ergo have lots of stuff.  That’s why I sometimes make jokes about the stuff in my basement - I’m storing the majority of it here in my basement.  I’ve gotten the question before about ownership, so here is how that works.  The dig is on private land so anything we get technically belongs to the owner of the land.  Now, as far as I know, he has no interest in keeping any of it so it’ll likely end up in the hands of the arch society, who will basically just be custodians of it but not owners.  It might end up in a museum, too.  I don’t really know, but that determination won’t be made until we’re finished, and not by me.  

So every site has its own sort of categories of stuff that you find depending on who lived there (although for ease, archaeologists often categorize this stuff based on location and time - more on that later.).  For our site the majority of it falls into these categories: animal bone, shell, lithics, pottery, charcoal, modern contaminants, and artefacts.  And, to lend a bit of clarity here...lithics are anything made of rock.  So they include fire cracked rocks, flakes from stone tool making, material that was used in construction, material that was crushed to make temper for pottery paste (more on that later, too.), etc.  If it came from a rock it’s a lithic.  

And imma tell you a secret: I hate lithics.  Everyone has their thing, their category of human refuse that they simply do not like.  A prof of mine hated teeth and pottery.  That’s just how it is, and mine is lithics.  I think they’re boring, I can’t tell a flake from a blade, I don’t give a single fuck what material they are, I don’t care about the style or craftsmanship...I just don’t care.  I call them all rocks, and I do it so much that everyone on the site has started accidentally calling them rocks, too, which amuses me.  Rocks, to an archaeologist, means “stone that wasn’t altered or used by people”.  They’re worthless.  Not that I think lithics are worthless - far from it - I just really hate them and this site has so.  goddamned.  many.  Lucky for me, we have a Rock Guy aka someone who really loves lithics and actually has gotten pretty good at flint knapping and just, y’know, is really into rocks.  

And to clarify about artefacts.  When you’re out in the field everything you find is either an artefact or a find.  The collection of these things is called an assemblage.  When you’re doing lab work and sorting through it all later on an artefact is, well...like a thing.  I’m explaining this poorly....it’s a complete object with a specific function.  So, a whole pot = artefact, broken pieces = sherds (not shards, sherds.). Complete arrowhead = artefact, flakes or a broken one = lithic.  Artefacts also tend to be somewhat unique, or at least something you don’t have a lot of.  They don’t always have to be complete, anything that is a specific object can go in here.  Like, for example, this piece of pipe we found: 

To recap, we’ve got pottery, charcoal, lithics, shell, bone (animal - we haven’t found human. But I’m just gonna say bone.), and artefacts.  If you are sensitive to things like that, this is your warning that this post is going to have pictures of animal bone and you should scroll quickly.  

Now, for reference, this is what it all looks like before I clean it and after it’s been dying out for a day or two (the ground has natural moisture, so I basically just open the bags and let them air out.): 

And, yes....I am cleaning them off on an actual antique blotter with real silver edges that my mom gave me for this express purpose.  A factoid I’m only sharing because it amuses me in that sort of “bet they never envisioned this use for this thing” sort of way.  Normally, if I was in a real lab, you’d do this over a metal tray.  When you’re working with an assemblage you never hold it over empty space, you always hold it over the bench and preferably over whatever your work surface is.  That doesn’t mean I haven’t dropped my fair share of stuff anyway, but most of it just lands on the work surface and not the floor, which is why you hold it over a work surface.  But anyway, as you can see, it just looks like a brown, dirty mess.  I usually do a quick sort of the stuff I know for sure what it is and then I wash it with a soft toothbrush and some water.  The rocks I just submerge and swoosh around because they’re rocks and I can’t really damage them and there’s SO FRIKKIN MANY that I refuse to clean them individually.  

So now that you’ve gotten through that long-winded but necessary explanation of terms, where are we at? Since I’m a bioarchaeologist and I prefer things that were once alive to the general detritus of human society, we’re gonna start with the bone.  Specifically, we’re gonna start with how I know those two pits from yesterday’s post are one pit.  This is how: 

This is a deer bone.  Don’t ask me which one bc I’m really not good at ID’ing species and animal anatomy, but it’s a leg bone of some kind.  See how it’s broken? One piece was found in one hole and the other piece was in the other.  Clearly it’s the same animal, ergo the pits are related to each other.  The vast majority of what came out of that particular feature was bone, with the rest being charcoal and the occasional pot sherd.  This means it was probably used for cooking and not as a garbage pit. Also there was food in it, if you recall the cooking accident from yesterday.  but sometimes y’know, stuff falls into the fire pit or it’s put in there as a way of disposing of it.  

But wait, I have more cool animal bones!! 

Ok, so there’s this one: 

This bone has a special place in my heart. IDK what species it is (I *think* it’s a fragment of deer long bone.), but that’s not why it’s cool.  This single bone is strong evidence for the presence of dogs.  =D See that circular mark on the right? That is the impression of a canine tooth from a carnivore.  Human teeth can’t make those marks in bones - our teeth aren’t strong enough to do significant damage to bone, and anyway we tend to crack bones open with rocks (a form of damage called percussion marks.) and not with our teeth.  Those other longer scratch marks are also likely from chewing, not butchery, because they’re in the right places and they’re the right shape.  Now we know this was a settlement, and this bone was found smack in the middle surrounded by human detritus and not on the fringes or outskirts.  There were no domesticated felines in the Americas at the time BC this is from the lower pre-contact level, so what’s really the only carnivore that would be wandering around a human settlement? Dogs.  I love this kinda stuff because it’s so easy see them chilling around the fire pit, talking and eating, teasing whomever it was that spilled dinner, and then tossing the bones to their dogs to gnaw on after dinner.  It’s just such a people kind of thing, you know? All from one small, circular mark.  I actually found more on later bones that came out of other places, so it’s pretty safe to say there were dogs living here with their people even though we have found neither people nor dogs.  

So here’s another cool bone: 

Again, no idea what species it is bc I’m not a zooarch (yes, there are archaeologists that specialize in animals and wooooo boy can they tell you a LOT about migration and eating habits of people.). It’s about the size of half my thumb, IE, not large.  This one is cool, and it’s the only one I have like this, because of that notch you can see vertically in the image on the right hand side.  I don’t know what it was for, but I DO know that it was an intentionally made modification to the bone.  Those striations aren’t natural - natural bone is smooth or has a very specific texture and this isn’t that.  It’s probably not damage done to the bone after it was deposited in the archaeological record.  It has the same patina as the majority of the rest of the bone, which you can compare to the lighter area there on the right hand end of the bone.  That lighter area does not have the patina of age that the rest of the bone does, and is the result of damage in a much more recent time - probably as we were taking it out of the ground.  Small bones are fragile.  So someone gouged this channel intentionally in this bone, either because they were going to use it as decoration or it served some purpose as a tool.  I’m not really sure what though.  Hell, they could have just been bored and fidgeting after eating.  Either way, it’s a human modification to this bone that has nothing to do with cooking or consumption (damage from human consumption is cracks and breaks, not scrapes.).  It could also be a butchery mark, although it’s a bit deep for that.  Butchery marks are there from separation of meat from bone - they’re usually just shallow scrapes.  

Ok, last cool bone I’m gonna show you.  Well, bones, plural.  

Ok so this is part of the same assemblage as the ones above, and if I remember correctly these were the ones that came out of that pit.  You can see the same bone with the canine tooth mark there in the center.  There’s also some interesting things like some pottery on the left and a couple teeth off to the right (one is a deer and I *think* that curved on is a squirrel.), but the really interesting thing is the series of 3 shiny bones that are in the center.  There’s a lot of ways to cook meat, and they all do different things to bones.  You will often find the dry, brown looking ones like you can see here in the non-shiny bones. That’s like...your basic “this bone had meat on it when it was cooked”. Then you’ll see ones that are black, and that’s “this bone probably didn’t have meat when it was cooked, or someone tossed it back in the fire when they were done”. Lastly, you’ll see white bone, and that’s a bone that has been burned at a high temperature for a long time.  Usually it’s done on purpose (you can use burned, powdered bone to make stuff.).  

But the shiny ones were in a soup.  And the reason I know that is *because* they’re shiny.  Bones, especially old ones, aren’t shiny.  I mean...you can see that.  You have to do stuff to ‘em.  And bones are porous, but those weren’t.  They felt like hard plastic. And they get that way by being boiled.  The shiny patina is what we call pot polish - they were stirred in the soup while it was cooking and rubbed against the side of the pot and each other, and it gives them a smoother texture.  

All of these collections of bones tell us what and how they ate things.  I know from what I can ID here (which isn’t everything, trust me.) that they ate a lot of deer and wild turkey (we have an entire almost completely intact turkey long bone.). There is also, I believe, squirrel (I found a portion of a skull and jaw that I’m pretty sure belong to a squirrel), and an assortment of other small rodents and birds.  Lots of birds.  Bird bone is really distinctive, it’s light and the spongy bone has a distinct texture.  A zooarchaeologist can look at bones like this and ID species and age, and from there tell you what time year something was probably killed.  Societies that hunted a lot tended to do it seasonally so that they wouldn’t damage the populations.  Plus especially with fish and stuff they have very specific growing cycles and short lifespans, so they can also tell you a lot about where the people were hunting and when.  Like certain fish will only spawn in certain places, so it’s really informative.  Zooarchs are so important and there just aren’t enough of them.  

Anyway, there are other cool things in the bones but I’m trying to strike a balance here between too much and not enough and I really love bone so I’m going to stop here for today.  Tomorrow is going to be other artefacts (yeah, sadly, even lithics, lol), and what they tell us about the site and the people who lived there.   As an aside: if anyone has any like just general “how do they know this?” sort of questions about history and archaeology those would be fun to answer.  I love to tell people how we do things but I don’t just wanna infodump.  I DO want to explain procedure in what I hope is a readable way because I think understanding how we make the sausage will help people have more trust in science.  So if you have any questions, please, send asks.  If I don’t know the answer I’ll research it or pass it on to someone who does.  

[wtfjd95]

Together As One; Part 3

If you wanna be tagged Inbox Me

@xxxtwilightaxelxxx @imnotasuperhero @rooskaya-yelena @swords-are-cool @drpepperobsessed @natasha-danvers @coollemonsaresour @moonlagh @the-camilucha @hello-mtf @darkangelxoxo @ledollarbean-em @username23345 @marvels-writings​ 

Part One | Masterlist | Part Two

A/N: SURPRISE UPDATE!!!! 

Sorry if it seems so crap towards the end. I was trying to get it as close to a decent end as possible for this part but with work consuming my time now that the lockdown in England is easing, I have less time to write and writers block is slowly appearing once more. I’m not too sure if i’ll have a part 4 & if I do, it probably won’t be for a long while.

I hope you all enjoy this either way. 

2 months. 2 long months you had been unconscious and Wanda was terrified. She’d spent several months looking for you, never giving up hope that she’d see you again and once she had, she vowed that she’d never leave your side only to have you blackout on the ride back with yet to wake. So here she sat by your bedside, day in and day out as she waited for you to wake.

“Someone should talk to her,” Steve said. He, Natasha & Clint stood outside your hospital room.

Through the small glass window of the door, the three could see the dried tear tracks on Wanda’s face. The young woman had barely left your side, only leaving at the start to shower and change her clothes before she returned to your side, your hand clasped tightly in both of hers, pressing a kiss there every so often as she hummed a quiet tune. Whether it was to keep herself calm or hoping to rouse you from your slumber, no one knew.

“Yeah,” Clint agreed. “Someone should.” Both men turned to face Natasha, who just sighed and ran a hand over her face.

“Fine, I’ll do it.” Natasha grunted moving towards the door. “Men,” she mumbled as she walked in. 

“Hey, any news?”

“None since yesterday.” Wanda answered, her voice huskier than normal from lack of use.

“Wanda, why don’t you go and get changed?” Natasha suggested, looking over the well-worn sweatpants and hoodie the younger woman wore. “Or maybe check in on Silver? I’m sure he misses you.”

“I’m not leaving Y/N alone,” Wanda mumbled against the skin of your hand. “I promised her I’m not leaving her side again once I found her and I won’t break that promise.” ‘Not now, not ever.’ She thought to herself.

“Wanda, I’ll stay and watch over her while you go and clean up.” The Russian suggested. “I promise to call you if anything changes.”

Looking up at your peaceful face, Wanda exhaled shakily, green eyes shining with tears before laying your hand back at your side and standing from her seat, knowing there was no chance in fighting the redhead. Quietly, she shuffled towards the head of the bed and leaned down to press a soft kiss to your lips.

“I will be back soon, my love.” She uttered lovingly. “I promise you.” She pressed one final kiss to your lips before turning to Natasha. “You call me if she wakes up.”

“I promise.” Natasha vowed, looking at you before moving back to Wanda with a firm nod.

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

Stepping out of the elevator and onto her- your shared floor of the compound, Wanda was greeted by a soft meow and the light patter of feet. 

“Hello, Silver.” She smiled, moving forward and picking the small animal up. “I’m sorry for leaving you with the team for a while,” the kitten revelled in the affection that Wanda gave him, purring softly as she ran her hand over his head. 

Once she’d felt that she gave the cat enough attention, she allowed him to settle on her shoulder as she made her way toward the bedroom.

Entering your room, Wanda sighed. She hasn’t been inside since your disappearance, opting to sleep in her old room or even on the couch at times when she was too in her thoughts. 

The thought of sleeping alone in your shared bed was enough to bring tears to her eyes. Something she’d found out within the first week of you missing. She wasn’t able to sleep without you beside her for her nightmares returned full force with a few new ones featuring you. 

She cast a glance over the framed pictures that lined the top of your dresser, a small smile appearing on her face as she recalled the memories that came with them.

Various team photos played in a slideshow on a fancy digital frame that Tony gifted you a while back; another held a pic of you, Nat & Clint, you had Clint in a headlock while Nat just stood off to the side with her head in her hands.

The last picture, however, Wanda adored. It was at the engagement party that Tony had ‘offered’ to throw you. It had been a fairly fancy party, she might point out.

You had dressed in a pair of your nicest slacks, a button-up white shirt with a charcoal grey waistcoat while she wore a figure-hugging deep red dress. Her fingers delicately tangled in the baby hairs at the base of your neck while yours rested on her waist, foreheads pressed against one another as you swayed softly to the music. Neither of you cared about the world around you as you did.

With a shuddering breath, she set Silver on the bed and wiped the tears from her face, before stepping into the bathroom.

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

30 minutes later, Wanda was back at your bedside, freshly showered and changed with Silver curled up on her lap, a book levitating in red mist allowing her to run one hand along the kitten’s back, while the other held your hand, thumb running gentle circles on your knuckles. Besides the situation & beeping of the monitors attached to you, it was an almost peaceful silence.

“Y’know pets aren’t allowed in the medical wing, right?” Tony’s voice pulled Wanda from her thoughts, the young woman jumping slightly in response.

“He keeps me calm, you know that.” She told the billionaire, running a hand over Silver’s head, the kitten purring in content.

Tony was about to respond when the heart rate monitor you were connected to began to beep incessantly, Wanda’s grip on your hand tightening in fright. She listened to the rapidly increasing beep of your heart monitor with watery eyes. As Tony headed to the door calling for a doctor, when you suddenly shot up into a seated position, eyes snapping open and gasped for air.

“Y/N?” “Hey, kid?” Tony and Wanda chorused, trying to catch your attention.

Your eyes darted around the overly bright white room as your vision cleared, eventually landing on the two blurry figures at your bedside.

“Tony?” You wondered, lifting a hand to wipe at your face. “Wanda?” You blinked a few more times to make sure you weren’t seeing things.

“Detka? (baby?)” Wanda squeezed your hand cautiously, trying to get your attention.

“Wanda,” You mused. “Hi love. Is that my jumper?” She shrugged in response, tears falling from her eyes. “And who’s cat is that?”

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

An hour later, the doctor in charge of your care had filled you in on all you needed to know medically. Tony had left to inform the team and Wanda had stayed to inform you on what had happened while you were unconscious.

“And this is Silver,” she told you. The small siamese purred contentedly as he lay curled in your lap, your hand running along his back. “He was a gift from Tony. Not long after…” As she trailed off, you knew that she was referring to your initial disappearance.

“Silver, huh?” You pondered, a soft smile on your face as your fingers scratched Silver’s chin. “Does that have any reference toward a certain blue-eyed, silver-haired speedster we know?” You questioned trying to change the subject as quickly as possible. “I mean, I can definitely see the resemblance.”

The pair of you continued catching up until the door to your private room (courtesy of Tony) opened and Nat, Steve, Clint & Sam all filed in. Natasha being the first to approach, pressing a kiss to your head before each of the guys gave you a careful side hug. 

You were catching up with Steve when you spotted the bag slung over Clint’s shoulder.

“We pull you in from the school run there, Clint?” You joked, the archer scoffing in response. “What’s with the backpack?”

Clint just scoffed in return and threw the backpack into your lap. “Very funny,” He said. “I stopped off with Nat and we grabbed your backup bag you keep ready for this kinda situation.”

“Thanks you guys” you nodded as you reached for the bag, pulling out a fresh shirt.

You moved to stand from the bed, only for you to fall into Wanda when you collapsed. A surprised gasp coming from Wanda as you ended up in her lap.

“I mean you already knew I fell for you but it doesn’t hurt to tell you again” You smirked, arms snaking around her neck, hers around your waist. The both of you leaned in, lips barely touching when the sound of someone clearing their throat caused you to pull away.

“Almost forgot we had company” Wanda mumbled hiding her face in your neck, colour creeping up her own from embarrassment.

“Right, out you guys please.” You waved your arm at them. “I need to get dressed and would like some time alone with my fiance.”

“Oh that reminds me,” Wanda said, removing her hands from your waist and up to the back of her neck.

You watched as she pulled a chain from under the neckline of the jumper, a brief sparkle catching your eyes as the fluorescent lights overhead caused the gem on your ring to sparkle.

“I thought I lost it” You mumbled. “How?” Wanda just smiled as you held your hand out for her to place the ring back on your finger, where the both of you wanted it to stay.

“Let’s just say Fury has his ways” The young redhead told you, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

[not-xpr-art]

Art Advice #4 - A Beginner’s Guide to Digital Art

Hi all!

This weeks entry into my Art Advice tag, where I offer various advice for artists of any skill level, is about digital art! Now, I am by no means an expert at digital (I’ve been doing it for nearly 8 years at this point and that is almost entirely self taught), but I have picked up a few pointers in that time which will hopefully help anyone just starting out!

(this blogpost is a little over 2000 words long btw)

A Beginner’s Guide to Digital Art 

I know that the world of digital art has changed drastically in the 8 odd years since I started, but I’d still say that some of the options I started out with will be just as good for anyone who’s starting out now! 

As always, I’ll be splitting this into sections to make it easier for you to navigate this post!

Part 1 - Equipment/Hardware 

There are a lot of drawing tablet options on the market at the moment, and I’m not going to pretend that I know anything about half of them lol. But I think for a beginner, don’t worry about going for the most expensive option, even if the reviews are really good or your favourite artist uses it, especially if it is way above your budget! 

An important thing to know is that there are two types of tablet. One is the plug-in kind. These are essentially a pad which you plug into your laptop or computer and draw on that whilst looking at the screen (they basically work the same way as a plug in mouse works). The other kind is the screen variety, which is a lot more like what most of us know as ‘tablets’ nowadays. And you draw directly onto the screen. 

(a plug-in vs on screen tablet, both from Wacom)

Now, as for choosing between these, it is honestly a personal choice. But I’d say if you’re just wanting to try digital and you’re on a budget, a plug-in tablet can be really useful since it gets you used to the mechanics of what digital is like, and they are often significantly cheaper than the screen alternatives. I would say that plug-in tablets are a big learning curve, especially if you’re used to doing traditional stuff, but I do know a lot of professional artists who still use this kind of tablet when doing their work, so if it’s something you can get used to I would definitely consider it! Also, they’re often a lot more portable than some screen tablets! The first one I had was a Huion (a model so old that I can’t even find a link to it now lol), and I also know that Wacom are a well known brand that do some decent plug-in tablet. I’d recommend you do your own research on other brands and options, though!

Screen tablets are often a lot more expensive, but if you’re used to traditional art, they are a lot easier to get a handle of! But I know if you already have something like an iPad, or other general use tablets, then they offer apps that you can use to draw on (as well as things like the Apple pen, or other stylus’). The big difference between using these general tablets and ones specifically designed for drawing is pretty much purely a personal choice. I personally prefer the bigger screen of my XP-Pen tablet, along with a special screen protector that removes the shininess of the tablet screen and makes it feel more like ‘paper’ over when I used a general use tablet it draw. But if you already have an iPad, or something similar, then it’s honestly a really great starting point!

I think it’s important for me to mention that you don’t need fancy equipment to be an artist. The incredible Elicia Donze has revealed countless times how she has very basic equipment but still manages to produce the most stunning artworks! All you really need is some kind of drawing apparatus and a lot of patience lol! Getting good at any kind of art takes a lot of time and effort, but I would definitely say it’s worth it when you’re able to look back at your progress!

Part 2 - Software/Drawing Programs 

Much like with the hardware discussion, choosing which program to use is entirely down to personal preference. I personally have never really liked Photoshop purely because it’s really complicated, but I know so many artists swear by it. 

I think the main aspect to consider when you’re starting out is whether you want to pay for a program. Software like Photoshop, Clip Studio Paint and Procreate are some of the popular ones I hear about a lot of people using, but all require you to purchase or subscribe to them. So if you’re young or on a very tight budget, I’d honestly recommend the free alternative versions of these, such as Krita (Krita is quite a large program, but it has a lot of really awesome features and is very similar to Photoshop!), Gimp (this one is similar to Krita, but has slightly less options, I’d honestly recommend Gimp for anyone who does photo editing though!) or FireAlpaca (this is the one I use, by the way and it’s a pretty simple program, but has a lot of fantastic features and is perfect for how I work!). These don’t have as many features as some of the paid alternatives, but I honestly think all you really need to start digital art is some kind of ‘canvas’ and set of brushes!

Another great free program for beginners I’d recommend is MyPaint, which is great for doodling and just getting used to how digital art feels in comparison to traditional! It also has a bunch of ‘traditional style’ brushes, to make it look like charcoal or watercolour (which I’m sure the paid alternatives have too, but it’s always better when it’s free, I find lol...)

(this is an example of a drawing I did on MyPaint using the ‘charcoal’ effect brush!)

Most of the sites are pretty self explanatory, with sections dedicated to different brushes (I’ll go into the types of brushes later on in this post btw!), adjusting brush size, shape and opacity, a colour wheel, etc. You also have a section dedicated to ‘layers’ (another thing I’ll go into more detail later), and various ‘filters’ and editing options and effects you can add to your work to make it more interesting!

I’d really just recommend playing around with programs until you find your one!

Part 3 - The Pros of Digital Art!

I realise this section should probably earlier in this blog post lol, but I kinda wanted to go into what digital art can achieve in comparison to traditional art, and how beginner artists can utilise this!

I definitely didn’t take advantage of certain aspects of digital art when I first got into it, and they’re things that would have definitely made my life a whole lot easier lol!

Digital art allows you to tweak drawings as you do them. So if you accidentally drew the eye too far to the right, then you can easily move it to the right place. (I usually do this by selecting whichever area is wrong, cutting it out and then pasting it into a new area... And yes, there is probably a better and quick way of doing this but...I haven’t found that way yet lol...). And I honestly think that this has allowed me to look a lot more at a reference image in order to figure out where I’ve gone wrong with a drawing! Whereas with traditional art, I usually spend so long trying to get an eye right, that even if it’s slightly in the wrong place, I don’t want to completely redo that section. Digital allows you to completely rub out sections without leaving indents, which is honestly such a saving grace!

Another pro of digital is the Undo/Ctrl Z function! This means you can easily go back to before you made a major mistake with just a click of Ctrl Z... Though I have to say that this function has honestly ruined traditional art for me... Oh what wouldn’t I give for a real life Ctrl Z... But yeah, this is a great part of digital art and definitely something you will grow to love lol!

Another great thing about digital is that it allows you to flip and turn a canvas as you’re drawing on it. I spent a lot of time trying to turn my tablet around in order to draw certain parts of a piece before I realised you can turn the canvas itself without having to move yourself or your tablet!

Layers are another part of digital that can be super useful, and I have to be honest but I don’t really use them a lot. I know a lot of artists create layers for every section of their artworks (so, one for the linework, one for colouring, a separate one for the background, etc etc...). And there’s something really great about being able to paint without worrying about smudging into a previous section of the painting. This works well for my work since I do a lot of bright backgrounds. I also often create a lot of ‘versions’ of my works, so it’s useful to be able to change the background without affecting the main figure of the piece! (I have to say that I often work in one big layer when I’m doing paintings, just because I like how it feels more like ‘traditional’ art that way, but layers are such a brilliant tool, and definitely something you should play around with!)

The eyedropper tool is another one that is really useful! Although I never colour pick from my reference photos, I know some artists find this useful when they were just starting out (especially if you’re not sure what colour to make shadows or how to mix skin tones, etc etc). The eyedropper basically means you don’t need to mix your colours every time

Part 4 - Just some other things I wish I had known about when I was starting out lol...

This last section is just dedicated to a few things that I would have liked to have known when I was just starting out all those years ago. 

First one is fluffy/textured brushes! 

I spent most of my art life from 2013 until 2016 using ‘round’ brushes which are notoriously hard to blend with, so I’d recommend either downloading some fluffy/textured brushes (DeviantArt was where I got mine from a few years back, but there are probably other places you can get them for free too!) to your program of choice, since most of the programs I’ve used haven’t had fluffy/textured brushes as pre-set. 

I may make another post about how I blend in my artworks if that’s something people would be interested in?

(this is an example of textured brush blending vs round brush blending... I usually opt for round brushes for rougher blending styles and the textured brushes for more smooth and ‘realistic’ blending... for a lot of pieces, though, I use both brushes (the round brushes are good for details!) in the same way that you use different sized brushes for real paintings!)

The next thing I wish I’d discovered earlier is the Brush Stabiliser option. Some programs may do this automatically, but the one I use (FireAlpaca) requires you to manually change the amount of stabilising you have on your brush. This is particularly useful if you want to draw neat lines or straight lines (the stabiliser essentially slows down the ‘ink’ as you’re drawing). I only recently started using the stabiliser, and although I still like having it mostly turned ‘off’ for doing sketchy work, it does make doing line work a lot easier, and also gives pieces a more polished look!  

Next advice is to explore all the options you can in whatever program you use! 

I feel like with certain programs, you can get overwhelmed by choice and you end up just using a few of the functions. But I’d really recommend just playing around with these programs, trying all the filters and editing options to get used to how the program works. You can often find interesting ways to adjust your artworks this way! In a way I’d recommend this way of working more than finding tutorials made by other people... Unless there’s a specific function you want to learn how to do, just having fun with digital art is a major part of it’s appeal to me! 

~

There are probably a lot of other options I could go into, but this is already over 2000 words long, so I’ll leave it here for now lol! (I may do a part 2 though so... keep a look out for that!)

As always, if you have any questions to things I’ve said here, or are just looking for more advice, don’t hesitate to message me!

And if you like my work on here (art & blog posts) feel free to support me on my Ko-Fi! <3

[winterscaptain]

intellectual guesswork.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader

a/n: another ajf update that requires absolutely no context to enjoy! i love you all so much. send some extra love to your favorite writers this week :)

one quick thing - if you’re on my taglist, please consider dropping a reply or a reblog! i love to see what you all think, and it encourages me to keep going :) it’s also getting a bit long, and i want to make sure my mutuals and people who engage are seeing everything - tumblr sometimes has a hard time with a lot of mentions. 

words: 1.6k warnings: none!

summary: “ignorance of the law excuses no man - from practicing it.” - addison mizner. au!may 2008

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next? edited: january 12th, 2021

You all settle into one row. Aaron’s on the end beside you, looking very sharp in a crisp black suit, his favorite Rolex, and a settled kind of confidence you’ve only seen in him a few times. It’s like he’s in his natural habitat. 

Aaron’s record as a federal prosecutor speaks for itself, of course, but you’ve never seen him in action. As often as they can, the bureau’s leadership sends him in as an expert witness. This time, the case happens to be one of yours. The judge hasn’t required a sequestration for Aaron, so you get the treat of sitting together in the courtroom. 

He’s scoffed and mumbled snide remarks under his breath all morning. You’re just itching to see him get up on the stand and give this joker an education. 

Emily leans over, whispering in your ear. “I promise you’ve never seen anything like this before. Hotch is going to rip this clown to shreds.” 

You stifle a laugh and look over at Aaron. He heard her. Leaning toward you, he murmurs, “All my JD does is collect dust. When I use it, I’d like to enjoy it.” 

“Your Honor, the prosecution would like to call our expert witness, Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, to the stand.” 

He takes a breath and rises, buttoning his suit jacket and crossing the courtroom. His presence commands respect and everyone in the courtroom seems to shrink before him. 

The prosecution’s questions go over smoothly, and the defense attorney stands with an unreasonable amount of confidence. 

Emily leans over. “He thinks he can get Hotch with at least one of these questions, and he might. But just watch.” 

You nod, taking everything in. 

“So you’ve stated that it was your profile of the killer that led you and the police to my clients door that night.” 

“Behavioral analysis was a factor in our investigation, yes.” 

Without hesitation, the attorney follows up. “And was behavioral analysis also a factor in the Olympic Park bombings case in Atlanta?” 

“Yes, it was.” Aaron’s eyes and tone never waver, no hint of arrogance or cheek. 

“And was that suspect you identified,” the attorney asks, far too aggressively, “Richard Jewell, ever convicted of the bombings?”

The prosecution objects, and you watch Aaron. Every part of him observes the proceedings with an outwardly detached interest, but his eyes are alive - strategizing and anticipating. It’s like you can see the wheels turning as the lawyers bicker. 

 The judge ends the squabble. “I’ll allow it.”

Aaron, now with permission, answers simply, “No, he was not convicted.”

“Because he was innocent. Your profile led you to the wrong man.” 

Oh, give me a break. It takes everything in you not to scoff and you can feel Emily’s eye roll.

“Jewell was not the perpetrator, but if you look at the real Olympic Park Bomber, Eric Rudolph, you’ll see that our profile was dead-on.” 

Dead-on indeed, Aaron. 

“Well, how about we look at the Baton Rouge Killer? Your unit said that he was white and living in the city. He was Black and from the suburbs.”

Aaron’s eyes narrow and you feel Spencer shift beside you. Emily shakes her head. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “He always recovers, never in the way you’d expect.” 

“How do you know?”

Emily’s face pulls into a little smile. “I’ve read the transcripts. Hotch is terribly clever.” 

“You said that Dennis Rader, the B.T.K. Killer,” the attorney continues, “was divorced and impotent. He turned out to be married with two kids.” 

JJ huffs, and you hear her whisper to Spencer, “Can we quit with the sermon?” 

His lips turn up. “Just wait.”

Dave leans over and stares them down over Derek. Stop talking. 

All of you look down at your hands like chastised children, but your gaze floats back to Aaron right away. 

The prosecution objects again, this time on the grounds of preaching. The judge forces a question, and the attorney turns back on Aaron.

“Having been wrong on those cases, isn’t it possible that you were wrong about Brian Matloff?” 

“No.” Your chest squeezes. He’s completely firm in his denial. 

How does he do that?

“Fact is,” the attorney continues like Aaron didn’t speak at all, “behavioral analysis is really just intellectual guesswork. You probably couldn’t tell me the color of my socks with any greater accuracy than a carnival psychic.” 

“Objection!” 

Her outburst is unnecessary. Aaron has a plan. His eyes track to you as if to check in. Are you paying attention? 

If you weren’t watching before, you’re certainly watching now. Always. 

“Withdrawn.” 

“Charcoal grey.” His flat assertion makes you gasp and you immediately cover your mouth with your hand to stifle the sound. 

The attorney turns around. “Well, look at that,” he exposes his socks to the court, and they are, in fact, charcoal grey. “He got one right.”

Aaron’s not finished. “You match them to the color of your suit to appear taller. You also wear lifts and you’ve had the soles of your shoes replaced. One might think you’re frugal, but in fact, you’re having financial difficulties.” 

You do your best to school your expression and remove your hand from your mouth. Checking down the row, you see six smirks watching the witness box. 

“You wear a fake Rolex…”

And you’d know. 

“...because you pawned the real one to pay your debts. My guess would be to a bookie.” 

Is he smiling?

“I took this case pro bono.” There’s tension in Mr. Charcoal Grey’s voice. You can hear it behind the false confidence and it pulls a smile from you. “I am one of the most successful criminal attorneys in the state.”

Hotch continues, completely bypassing him. “Your vice is horses.” There’s definitely a little smile on his face now. “Your Blackberry’s been buzzing on the table every twenty minutes, which happens to be the average time between posts from Colonial Downs. You’re getting race results.” Your smile gets wider, and Emily grabs your hand. 

“Just watch.”

“And every time you do, it affects your mood in court, and you’re not having a very good day.” There’s something that looks almost like concern on Aaron’s face, but you know it’s nothing if not facetious. He’s ripping this poor man to shreds without changing a single thing about his presentation.

I love - 

Don’t finish that thought. 

Why not?

Remember how he’s freshly divorced?

I know, but have you seen him?

“That’s because you pick horses the same way you practice law -” 

You lean forward and Emily follows, her thumbnail between her teeth. 

The final blow. 

“- by always taking the long shot.” 

If this was any other setting, you’re sure the entire team would be on their feet, shouting and jeering. But alas, you’re in court, so you settle for a wide smile and a suppressed laugh. Amused brown eyes meet yours from across the room and you shake your head just the tiniest bit. I can’t believe you.

His lips twitch. 

“Well, you spin a very good yarn, Agent, but as usual, you’ve proven nothing.” He’s just trying to recover something, anything left of his dignity. He fails, miserably. 

“If I’m not mistaken,” Aaron says, his eyebrows raised just a little, “the results from the fifth race should be coming through any minute.”

Just then, his Blackberry buzzes on the defense table. “Why don’t you tell us if your luck has changed?”

You raise your hands to your face to cool the rising heat in your cheeks. 

“Your honor, this is - “

The judge takes matters into his own hands. “What do you want me to do? Either show us your Blackberry or cut him loose, counselor.”

Hotch and the defense attorney share a loaded look. It’s a battle of wills. 

Aaron wins. 

“Nothing further.”

+++

When you all leave the courthouse, you practically latch onto Aaron’s arm, completely floored. 

“How did you do that?”

He laughs and Derek jumps up beside him, shaking his shoulders. “Come on, Hotch. That was incredible.” 

“Why have a law degree if you aren’t going to use it?”

+++

He offers you a ride home later that evening and you take him up on it. You’re both still in the car, idling in front of your house. 

“That really was impressive today,” you admit, your eyes on your hands.

You can feel his soft smile rather than see it. “Thanks. I know it didn’t quite go the way we wanted as far as the case itself, but there’s more to come.” 

“It’s never as bad as it looks in the first couple of days.” 

“Exactly.” He sighs. “Thanks again for being there today. It’s…” his lips twist as he thinks, “nice to have the team around.” 

You reach out, squeezing his forearm before immediately letting him go. “Of course. We’ll always be there for you. Plus, there’s nothing better than watching you tear blowhard lawyers to shreds in a court of law.” 

“I’m not sure that’s exactly how it went.” 

“You’re kidding!” You laugh. “That’s just what happened. The man left without half his soul! You absolutely tore it from his body.”

The pair of you quiet, and you move to get out of the car. He stops you with a hand over yours as you unclip your seatbelt. “Really. Thanks for being there today.” 

“I can’t emphasize this enough - it was my pleasure.” 

Enough of a pleasure as it was, his smile in the dark of the car is the best part of your day.  

+++

tagging: @arganfics @quillvine @stxrryspencer @agenthotchner @wandaswitxh @hurricanejjareau @fics-ilike @ange-must-die @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @shrimpyblog @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @good-heavens-chris-evans @davidrossi-ismydad @angelsbabey @gublergirls @writefasttalkevenfaster @venusbarnes @hotchsflower @micaiahmoonheart @ogmilkis @thatreallyis-americas-ass @marvels-agents100 @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @captain-christopher-pike @joemazzello-imagines @pinkdiamond1016 @sebbybaby0 @pan-pride-12 @hotchlinebling @lee-rin-ah @sunshine-em @word-scribbless @jdougl-love @sageellsworth05 @nohalohoseok @giveusbackourbucky @writerxinthedark @bauslut @yourlovelynewsbian @sparklingkeylimepie @aili28 @kingandrear @reader4027 @spnobsessedmemes @rogers-mouth @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @hotchnersgoddess @buckybau @phoenixfyre374 @sana-li @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandi-ass-prentiss  @dontkissthewriter @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @laneygthememequeen @ahopelessromantic @violentvulgarvolatile @andreasworlsboring101 @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @violet-amxthyst @bwbatta @roses-and-grasses @lcvischmitt @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @mandylove1000 @garcia-reid-lovechild  @cevanswhre @colbyskoalas @qvid-pro-qvo @jeor @spencers-hoodrat @infinity1321

[tsarisfanfiction]

Sicktember - Virgil and 30. Food poisoning :D Sorry Virg :D

Good Intentions

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Gen Genre: Family/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Scott, Virgil

No Grandma meant no charred food. That was supposed to be a good thing. @sicktember prompt 30: Food Poisoning/Allergy.

A triple whammy here - as well as @janetm74's dealer's choice, I also received a request for this prompt with Scott on FFN from islandsandstars, so here we are! Warning for non-explicit mention of throwing up.

Sicktember 2021 Prompts - I only plan on writing prompts if I get a request for them, so request away :D Doesn’t have to be TAG - characters from any fandom can be requested (although I can only guarantee I’ll work with ones I know)

It was an unfortunate fact in the Tracy household that none of them had escaped the experience of food poisoning. Grandma tried – and they loved her for it – and it was true that what with the uncertain schedule of International Rescue, not having someone cooking for them would have made their lives even harder, but while burnt food could be choked down safely enough (provided there was no actual choking involved), there were some memorable occasions where the food hadn’t been charred enough.

That was probably why she erred on the side of charcoal, actually.

Scott was abjectly miserable. The chills that wouldn’t stop wracking through his body no matter how many blankets he bundled up in didn’t help matters, and nor did the stomach cramps lancing through him at inopportune moments, but the greatest cause of it was guilt.

It was true that he didn’t often cook any more, what with rescues and paperwork and Grandma’s unfortunate monopoly on the kitchen whenever she was around, but he was passable at it. Mom had encouraged all of them, with the possible exception of Alan due to the youngest only being a toddler at the time, to learn as kids, and while cooking had never caught his attention as such, he’d spent enough time in the kitchen with her to know what he was doing.

Those lessons had served him and John painfully well after they’d lost her.

Grandma was out visiting friends, and for once he’d had no pressingly urgent paperwork to field, so he’d decided to treat his brother to a home-cooked meal that was a colour other than black.

What was that saying about good intentions? Ah yes, the road to hell was paved with good intentions.

In hindsight, it was a blessing that Gordon had been on one of his research trips while Alan and Kayo were on a mission in Thunderbird Three which required John’s supervision. Brains had been off at another of his conferences, leaving just Scott and Virgil on the island. At the time, that had been a source of private disappointment. Now, it was a relief. Scott just wished Virgil had been elsewhere, too.

Despite Scott’s supposed aptitude in the kitchen, with Grandma in charge of the shopping he’d had to work with what was currently in stock. The next shopping trip was due as soon as she got back, and both absent Thunderbirds had raided enough food to keep themselves fed while they were away from civilisation, meaning there was very little left to work with – and at least some of it, neither he nor Virgil had recognised.

It had only taken a quick internet search to identify the items in question, and then another one to determine how they should be cooked, so Scott had deemed that as a problem solved and moved on.

Problem solved, it had not been. Scott had yet to work out what, exactly, had gone wrong, but within hours of clearing up he’d found Virgil, pale and miserable, trying desperately hard not to throw up. Much like the cooking, that had not been a success, and Scott was glad that at least his own stomach was strong enough not to react sympathetically.

His own symptoms hit an hour or so later, right as he’d been chivvying a disgruntled Virgil into bed, and it was with no small amount of embarrassment that he’d been forced to contact John and let him know that Thunderbirds One and Two were, for the short term, grounded. John, supportive and caring little brother that he was, rolled his eyes, called him an idiot, and then had gone on to be a far more reassuring big brother to the bundled-up Virgil. Promises were made to come home once Alan and Kayo no longer needed monitoring, and then said younger siblings had interrupted with need for data, abruptly ending the call.

So here Scott was, wrapped up in blankets and trying to ignore his cramping stomach as he perched on a chair by Virgil’s bed. His younger brother had undeniably caught the worst of it, evidenced by the emesis basin Scott was having to empty more frequently than he was happy with, and as it was entirely Scott’s own fault, he couldn’t leave Virgil to suffer alone.

Not that Virgil shared the sentiment. He’d fallen asleep for the moment, rumbling away reassuringly even though his face was pinched in clear discomfort, but when awake made repeated demands for Scott to go to bed himself.

Like Scott was going to do that. The cocoon of blankets did its job well enough – at least to offer physical comfort, if not the warmth his body was craving – and with Virgil so much worse, leaving him was not an option. What if he threw up in his sleep? He’d been laying on his side like a sensible person while still awake, but the first thing he’d done after slipping into the land of nod had been to roll onto his back. Rolling him back would likely mean waking him, which in turn would mean an even grumpier brother.

It was only some chills and irritating cramps. Nothing he couldn’t power through. Maintaining a bedside vigil didn’t require much energy, after all, and the whole thing was his fault in the first place.

He didn’t notice when the tall, slender shadow slipped into the room several hours later.

[whatifxwereyou]

Firestorm Part 2: Determination

Fandom: Mortal Kombat 2021 Liu Kang x Reader

A/N: That plot getting real again tho. It's funny to me how different the plots for both sides have become just from one little decision. Thank you guys for the support.

If you would like to be tagged for Firestorm when I post, let me know. I'll start a tag list.

The Oncoming Storm Part 1 Part 3 Chapter Index

“What else can you remember?” Feng tapped his fingers against the charcoal. He’d done several sketches of the demon-looking creature that you’d seen in your visions but none of them had come out quite right. It was like the image that had once been clear had become jumbled up when you tried to describe it. It was deeply upsetting honestly. To think that someone’s power over you could be so strong that they could literally twist images in your brain. You felt betrayed by your brain.

Feng had the patience of a saint for dealing with your confusion. You were no artist either, so describing the creature had been exceptionally difficult. You had five portraits to work from and each of them was startlingly different. You hoped that at least one of them was accurate enough for Raiden to recognize.

“The horns were different.” You struggled to remember and rotated your pained shoulder. It had been heavier that day for whatever reason.

“Are you okay, Y/N? Do we need to stop for today?” Feng set the sketchpad down in his lap with concerned eyes.

“What?” You hadn’t realized that you’d been cradling your arm to your chest. Oops. You let it go but it ached in objection. “No, I’m fine. We can keep going.”

“Okay…” He drifted off nervously and began to alter the horns on the sketch. Then he stopped again with a heavy sigh. “Maybe you should go get that looked at,” he whispered as though others could overhear even though you were very much alone. You stole a glance at the mark that spread from your shoulder to your chest. It was red, enflamed, and swollen.

“It’s probably just all this rain.”

“I’d feel more comfortable if you got it looked at.” Feng bowed his head politely. You sighed heavily again. He was worried about you, yes, but you knew your limits. You were tired of being treated like you didn’t, but you also understood his concern. It wasn’t just that he was worried about you, either. The latest ‘tea’ was that you were dangerous and unpredictable. “You seem distracted. We can pick it back up after you’re less pained.”

“If that’s what would make you comfortable, then fine.” You wouldn’t argue with him anymore. It wasn’t worth it. Feng went about gathering his art supplies and you focused on your shoulder. The crack ached deeply, like someone had run a hot knife through it while you’d been sleeping. “Thank you for the help, Feng.” You yelled after him when he practically ran from the room.

People had taken to treating you like a ticking timebomb. You’d played into it a few times because it had been ridiculous. You tried not to let it bother you but on and off it had. Your shoulder was bad today so maybe Feng was right. You should stop by the infirmary. Plus, you hadn’t seen Chen yet today and it would be nice to chat with someone who wasn’t afraid of you. As much as you wanted to sit around and enjoy the storm, when left alone with your thoughts, you couldn’t stop thinking about your conversation with Liu Kang from the night before.

The infirmary it was.

“Oh, good!” Chen stomped angrily toward you as you approached the infirmary. You looked behind you to make sure that there wasn’t someone there that deserved this much of Chen’s wrath. You’d never seen Chen that aggressive before. In fact, you had been certain that nothing bothered Chen enough to make you stomp around. Oh, how wrong you were. “I need to talk to you about those boys.”

“Could you be any louder about it?” You didn’t turn red this time. You’d grown tougher skin since the last time Chen had teased you. “And can you look at my shoulder first? Or during? I don’t care when as long as you look at it.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Uh… it’s swollen and it hurts.” You couldn’t believe Chen’s attitude. Chen grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the infirmary. With a twist of your wrist, you were forced to sit down. You held your hand then protectively away from Chen who wasn’t being at all gentle. “If you aren’t going to be nice to me then I will ask one of the other monks to help.” Your shoulder was now throbbing after Chen’s pulling. Your stomach churned like you’d eaten something bad.

Chen seemed to consider then and then sighed. “You are kind of gray, I suppose. What did you do to upset it? Did you overwork it like I told you not to?”

“Why do you assume that I did something wrong?”

“You have a track record, Y/N.”

“I think it’s the weather. Feng practically fled from me because of it.” You held your arm protectively against your chest as Chen reached for it. “Are you going to be nice? It hurts. I don’t need you tugging on it unnecessarily.”

“Yes, I promise. I’m sorry.” Chen took a breath and finally smiled. “After we took a look, we are discussing those boys though.”

“Quieter, please.”

“Oh hush, Y/N, everyone here knows what’s going on and I have a lot to say. I can’t be blamed for my tone right now.” Chen tugged your arm free, and you yelped and saw stars. You fanned your face with your other hand when it became way too hot very suddenly. Your lips were tingling.

“Chen, you’ve got to…”

“I overheard those two sneaks talking and…”

“Chen?” You scooted to the edge of the bench and spoke with urgency. Your head was spinning. You might vomit. Oh no. It was too hot in there. Had it been that hot in there when you’d arrived? Were you just now noticing?

“Don’t avoid the topic, Y/N.”

“Chen, I think she’s being serious.” One of the other monks came over to you and clasped Chen’s shoulder. Your ears were ringing. You saw the two of them arguing. The monk was pointing at you while he argued with Chen. Then you fell forward, and everything went black before you hit the floor.

***

Stone was hot beneath your body. Burning. You sat up, rubbing the sore spot on your head from hitting the ground but every movement was like you were stuck in molasses. The wind was whipping at you, and your hair flew wildly around you. The air was red hot and instead of rain fell embers.

You were atop a mountain. How had you gotten outside? Lightning struck all around you and the stone beneath you began to crumble. You could see it falling on top of the buildings below. People were screaming. A thousand voices overlapped, crying in pain, and calling for help. You managed to crawl to the edge of the crumbling mountain but was thrown back as lightning struck too close to you. Flames raged from below.

The temple was on fire. You tried to make your way over the edge, but your shoulder felt as though hooks had been driven into it, hooks that were attached to weights.

The storm! You realized, deafened by the roar of fire and the grumble of thunder what this was.

It was going to damage the temple.

People were going to die.

You had to do something, but the weight was too much. It dragged you down. You could barely move. People were screaming over the thunder, over the fire. You could smell burnt flesh. There was no escape from it, and you sat in agony, helpless amongst the fire and the death.

***

You sat up with a start and a gasp. The infirmary spun. You were on the floor and spotted Chen about ten times as the world spun. You were coated in a thin sheen of sweat and your body was trembling.

“Oh, oh no… no lay down, Y/N. Lay down.” Chen carefully urged you to lay back, but you fought her. Then you stopped and gulped, feeling the burning of nausea in the back of your throat. “Please! Lay down, Y/N.” The other monks were gathered nearby but had left a wide berth around you just in case. There was no ink that you could see, so there was that.

“I need to talk to Raiden, it’s urgent.” You muttered, pushing Chen’s hand away from you. Chen grasped your pained shoulder and you hissed in objection. “Chen!”

“You had a fit, Y/N. You need to lay down. Take it easy. Did you have a vision? There wasn’t any ink, you just collapsed and smacked your head on the floor.” Chen was checking your pupils and you were trying very much to escape the death grip Chen had on your shoulder.

“I had a vision, I need to…”

“Lord Raiden?” One of the monks spoke in surprise. Then they were all bowing as the god entered the room. Chen relaxed her grip on your shoulder in surprise and then stepped back and bowed low to the floor. Raiden had known that you needed to speak with him.

“What is it, Y/N?” He crouched low by your side. His presence was more imposing than ever, but you felt so afraid by what you’d seen that you weren’t intimidated.

“I saw something. There’s going to be… an accident.” You held your head in frustration as you struggled with words. There was a knot right on the side of your head above your ear from where you’d fallen. Why couldn’t you just say it? There was going to be a collapse! A fire! Lightning would strike the mountain and there would be devastation. The words were there but by the time they reached your mouth they were gone. You couldn’t seem to translate the images into words, and you had never been more frustrated. “Ugh.” You held your head in your hands and grasped your hair in annoyance. “It’s important but I… I can’t…”

“Can you show me?”

“I…” You hesitated. The infirmary was filled with people, and you were terrified of putting them in danger. Nothing good had ever happened while you were sharing visions with Raiden. What if they got hurt? It was one thing to hurt Liu Kang, a trained warrior who had put himself in harm’s way. This was another thing entirely. You suddenly realized just how dangerous you truly were.

“I will take you somewhere isolated.” Raiden seemed to read your mind. Either that or your expression had said is quite plainly. Before you could add that it was urgent, Raiden grasped your arm. Lightning crackled and you had returned to the chamber you’d referred to mentally as his. Raiden helped you get to your feet and then urged you to take a seat on a bench near the wall. “You’re pale.”

“I don’t… that’s not important. What I saw, Raiden. It’s urgent.” You didn’t care that you were sick or dizzy or pale. Whatever. If what you saw was going to happen during the storm, then it would be happening soon. You needed Raiden to see what you saw and interpret it for you. It occurred to you that not all visions would be accurate. Some of them could have been that creature screwing with you, taunting you.

“Yes, of course.” Raiden looked hesitant though you couldn’t say why. This was urgent.

“Please.”

Raiden placed his hand atop your head. Then with a crushing pressure you were gone. Like a light had been turned off inside of you. There was nothing. No pain. No struggling. No visions.

Just darkness.

Then you woke up.

The room that spun around you was one you didn’t recognize. Location didn’t matter anymore. At least you were awake. Your heart was racing like it was going to take flight, as though you had spent hours running beyond exhaustion. You sat up with a grunt but then Chen was pushing you to lay back down again.

Ugh.

“Relax, Y/N. You’re safe.” Chen reassured you but her expression betrayed her. She looked exhausted and worried. She was stuck on Y/N-duty again. Poor Chen. You bet that she regretted getting close to you now with all the extra work she had to do. “Please listen to me for once. I need you to lay and relax. You have a fever but you’re okay.”

“My heart.” You patted your chest nervously to mimic the beating of your heart.

“It’s stress but you’re okay. It’ll calm down.” Chen assured you but picked up your wrist and took your pulse anyway.

“What happened? Is everything okay? Did…” You drifted off as you forced yourself up on your elbows. Your whole left side was tingling and numb. Chen frowned at you disapprovingly.

“Raiden saw. It’s okay, Y/N. Lightning struck the mountain on the other side of the ravine but…” Chen then held her finger up to silence you so she could count. You held your breath, hoping that Chen would tell you more. Then Chen swatted you for holding your breath and you pouted.

Raiden’s presence made you both turn your heads toward the doorway. “Leave us.” He ordered in a stern tone but then bowed his head as if realizing he’d spoken too harshly. Chen sighed, frustrated, and then gently squeezed your hand.

“I’ll find you later.”

“Thank you, Chen.” You carefully pushed yourself so that you were sitting upright. Your shoulder throbbed and your left arm felt numb and useless. You cradled it to your body with your other hand. Raiden sat down on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees.

“You saved a great many people today.”

“I didn’t do anything, I don’t…”

“You did.” Raiden looked to you from the corner of his eye. “I was able to see your vision and minimize the damage. Lives were saved.” He then bowed his head. “The devastation you foresaw was tremendous. Because you were able to communicate your vision to me, we caught it before it happened.”

“I didn’t do anything. I don’t- I don’t want that credit.” You frowned. You really hadn’t done anything worthy of praise.

“You saw.” Raiden’s expression was serious. You felt again like a little girl who had disobeyed her father, so you didn’t object. “That creature told you that you would not see, and you saw anyway. You were meant to see, Y/N.”

You hadn’t thought of it that way.

You hadn’t thought about the fact that you were terrible at this was because of that creature. He stifled your ability to see. Duh. But you’d seen anyway. Raiden had said it with such pride that you felt a little proud. Even though seeing had kicked your ass, it had been worth it.

“We will find a way to separate you from this curse. You will see clearly. You will see and you will fight.”

You teared up.

You stuttered, wanting to thank him for his help, for his belief in you but no words came out. You wiped your eyes. Much to your surprise, Raiden hugged you. It was a fatherly hug, something that you hadn’t felt in so long that you weren’t sure how to emotionally respond to it. You had never been close with your father. In fact, he’d frightened you. He’d never hurt you but he’d been imposing.

“I’m sorry that I hurt you.” He let you go and you pulled back, adjusting to sit against the wall behind you. You were exhausted but at least the feeling was returning to your arm.

“Oh no, no Raiden. I’m not. You had to. I was… out of control.” You hadn’t blamed him. You had hurt Liu and the ink had been filling the room. You’d needed to be stopped and he’d done what he thought was right.

“I hurt you more than I intended. I’m still sorry.”

“It’s okay. I have more than forgiven you.”

“I’ve moved the artifacts somewhere safe. I’m hoping that the distance will offer you some relief.” Raiden got up and was back to his usual composed and intimidating self. You tried not to smile. It had been exceedingly kind of him to reassure you. Sweet, even. “If we can get control of your visions and your arcana so that they are at least less destructive then it is a step in the right direction. I want you to work on that when you’re feeling a little better. You must survive long enough to discover who has done this and why. Why you? What motives could they have other than to stifle your visions? And why is it that you have these visions? They are unrelated to your arcana.”

“I’ve thought about that more than you know. I’ll do my best to get some control over it. I’m going to fight, Lord Raiden.” His belief in you had given you strength. You’d been teetering on having faith in yourself for so long that it was nice to feel determined. You had needed that push. Even though you felt like absolute garbage after having your vision and sharing it with Raiden only moments after, you still felt better than you’d felt in a long time.

“Good.” He turned to face you again. “Thank you, Y/N. You saved many lives today and I am grateful. Get some rest.” He bowed to you and then left the room. Chen returned through the same doorway only seconds later in a huff. She seemed overwhelmed and you couldn’t blame her.

“What did he say to you? I tried to listen in but I think he knew I was listening. I couldn’t hear a single word!” She pouted in frustration, as if she had failed at being a gossip.

“Good. It wasn’t your business, Chen.” You teased but then rested your head on Chen’s shoulder with a sigh. Chen slipped her arm around you in a hug.

“You doing okay, sweet pea?”

“I don’t like that.” You laughed, sitting upright, and holding your sore shoulder. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“When you stop collapsing all over the temple then I’ll stop worrying.” Chen scolded. “I can’t keep reassuring you when you keep doing things to worry me.”

“I know, I really do. I’m working on it. I’m sorry to have worried you.”

“Don’t be sorry. I just want you to be okay.” Chen furrowed her brow. You felt lucky to have her. “Why don’t I help you back to your room so that you can get some rest?”

“That’s probably for the best.” You tried to roll your shoulder but your body wasn’t having it. “Wait, you were up in arms about something earlier. Weren’t you? Or was I imagining you being mean to me?”

“For another day, Y/N. Right now I want you to rest.”

“Are you worried about stressing me out because of the heart thing?”

“I absolutely am.” Chen giggled and then helped you to your feet. Your legs were wobbly but once you were on them, you were fine. Chen insisted upon helping you back to your room regardless. You didn’t want to sit and listen to the storm for the rest of the afternoon. Earlier you would have been happy to but after talking to Raiden, you were motivated.

For the first time in your life your visions had been more than a burden that deteriorated your health and made people call you names. You’d seen the potential destruction of parts of the temple and it had saved lives. Raiden had been the one to save those lives but without you he never would have known it was coming.

You didn’t want credit for it but it did feel good to have done something other than destroy and maim.

[dizzydancingdreamer]

The Servant and The Prince | Four

Mama Mia, here we go again lovelies!

Description: This is very much a Cinderella trope because I cannot help myself and I am in love with Loki, chapter four

Pairing: Loki x Female!Reader, third person as I may adapt eventually with an OC

Warnings: anger, mentions of abuse (not graphic), mentions of death (not graphic)

Tags: angst, fluff

Word count: 6.2k (oh god)

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Master List

Y/n’s heart thunders as she gazes up at the glittering golden gates of the castle. If she was not so bogged down with bags she would throw a hand over her brow— a futile attempt to keep her eyes from burning out of their sockets. Do they really have to be this glittery? She thinks they are marvellous, that is not the problem. The problem is that she is not marvelous. Not in the slightest. Not worthy of such magnificent, splendid, rich architecture. She glances down at her simple dress— the loose green threads hanging from the side of the garment— she had meant to fix those— is this really where she must stay? Surely there must be a stable somewhere. A barn for animals like her.

“Come on you churl—” Estrid hisses, her demon-esq nails digging into her arm where her step mother’s hand curls over sleeve— “you are making us look bad. At least pretend to have some couth.”

Estrid drags her forward for a moment, ushering her— all but kicking her— through the blinding gates before losing interest and rushing to meet Anna. Y/n bites her tongue. There are many things she could say. It is almost strange just how many retorts rush to her tongue. They race through her skull, infecting her mind like a sort of mould. Unlike with the bread back home she cannot seem to pick away at it— she cannot make the bad spots go away.

Perhaps if they had not left her to carry all of their things then she would not be taking so long. Do they really believe the princes will spare their diamonds a glance anyway? They are sure to be able to smell the fakes from miles away!

Y/n blinks a few times at the roar of fire that swells in her chest, encasing her very lungs in flames, almost stumbling over the marble stairs beneath her. It feels as though if she does not scream right now— if she does not say everything on her mind, unleash this pent up resentment— then she will surely cook from the inside out. It bubbles, simmers, does the thing pots do when they begin to sizzle— like they are screaming but she is not screaming; she only wishes she was. But she has never wanted to scream and she has been through so much worse. What is one little name, one hand yanking her arm? It is nothing but still she is ready to let the flames engulf her and burn the entire city.

It is terrifying— this kind of all consuming rage.

Estrid turns back towards Y/n, who is still stumbling over the steps, always the faithful servant, and her step mother scoffs. Estrid mutters something under her breath that she cannot hear. An insult, no doubt. It does not reach her ears. There is no way she would have been able to hear it anyway, not over the sound of the flames disintegrating her bones and blood and flesh from the inside out. It makes her want to scream louder— harder, make the castle walls crumble the same way she feels like she is— loud enough to hear over the roar.

Can you not hear it? Do you not care? She can taste the words as they beg for mercy on her tongue, wanting nothing more than to die on the cobblestone before her, spat out in a string of venom like they are meant to be. Can they not see that she is burning to the ground?

She barely swallows the words— she can hear them crying as they pass her throat and she almost changes her mind. She almost sets them free. It is all she can do to bend her neck at her step mother, wonder if the flames are visible in her eyes, and try not to cough up smoke right here on the castle steps. That would be very unladylike— a dishonor on her family. Oh— wait— no it would not be. Her family is dead. She can vomit as much smoke and flames as her little, burning heart desires. She has no one left to bring shame to. Gods, she is so terrified.

Why she is terrified, she does not know. She has never been scared before— not like this.

She was scared of the dark for the longest time. She used to see shadows on her walls and under the waves in the wash basin and against the trees when her mother would make her fetch the cat before bed. She used to think that was true fear— the night. The shadows. The wash basin. But then the morning sun would come and fight the shadows— then her mother would empty the basin— and before long there was nothing left to be afraid of.

But then there was no mother to empty the wash basin and suddenly she was afraid of death and the dark. Surely death must be the greatest fear one can have. Right? The all consuming nothingness, the longest sleep, the unknown. What could be scarier than the unknown? Than losing the people she loves the most and being left to wonder where they are and what they are doing— if they can even do anything— and are they okay? Please, someone just tell her, are they okay? She is not okay.

Darkness and death— death and darkness. At least those were always the scariest things and at least she had overcome them— both of them. There is nothing scarier than those two things. Except, apparently, herself. That is all there is left to be afraid of. Not Estrid or Anna, not pain. Not him. Those are all things she has survived. Overcome. Enjoyed. There is only herself to be afraid now, and the overwhelming, unbearable anger unfurling in her chest and arms and neck and skull. She is terrified of herself.

She is terrified of the anger.

“This way ladies— your chambers are this way!”

Y/n blinks— certain her eyelashes are singed and the blur in her vision is from the smoke in her eyes— and finds that she is no longer on the marble steps but in a long hallway. Pillars rise to her left, showcasing an expansive forest and a smudge of blue that must be the ocean. It feels so close— she can see the waves cresting with white foam so it must be. She can smell the salt, like it is right next to her. She can almost feel the surf lapping at her toes, cooling some of the burning tingle. She would do anything for it to rush up her legs. Soak her dress. Make her skin sticky. She would take the stickiness over the relentless flames. There is no time, though, to take her moment of peace. No time for stickiness. There never is.

“Are you deaf?” Estrid’s hand presses down on her spine, right where the bruises are from the last time the two came in contact. “Move! I will not take kindly to getting the worst chamber because of your dawdling.”

Are the bruises purple? She wonders. Perhaps they are red and black— like molten lava, shifting under her skin. She does not voice her musings aloud, of course. She swallows those thoughts alongside the rest of them. She can feel the precise way they fall on top of their partners, each wasted syllable mushing into the last. They fill her aching belly all the way, pressing on the hollow dip of her throat. If her thoughts were food she would never be hungry again.

Of course, she does not say any of that. Instead she bows her head, eating the flames as they rise. She is so full already though. “I am very sorry, Milady.”

Estrid scoffs. “You should be. Henry should have drowned you at birth had he known you would be so slow.”

At the sound of her father’s name her head snaps up. Estrid is already walking away again, hurrying to meet her impatient daughter. Anna taps her heel against the marble. Click, click, click. Each tap makes her head pound harder. Soon she cannot hear the clicks anymore. Her father would never do anything of the sort— her father was kind! They are not looking at her anymore. They cannot see the smoke billowing from her ears. They cannot see the blackness she feels flashing across her vision. They cannot see the hate. Just like she cannot see the bruises. Are they purple? Are they scarlet? What would her father think of them? She cannot see the bruises but she can feel them. Hot and itchy and painful. Can they feel the hatred? Are they just ignoring it like she is ignoring the volcanic bruises?

Probably. And they are not the only ones. Y/n weaves through the crowded hallway, dodging women of all shapes and colors— quite literally, she narrowly passes a woman with purple tinted skin— all of whom spare her not even a glance. It makes her feel invisible. It makes feel like she can finally breathe. It makes her angry. She is breathing the smoke again. Every face that passes her that does not look at her makes her charcoal lungs ignite even more. Her only solace is the all too familiar feeling of being split in two. The anger is not wholly her own— it is his as well. She can feel him in her chest, that aching part of her anger where he demands to be seen.

Is he mad at her?

She stops dead in her tracks. Just like that, her own anger is gone, replaced with something ice cold and unbearable. It starts in her hands. Her wrists begin aching— freezing— as the ice flows up through her veins. She thought the fire was bad. She takes it all back in this moment— she wants the flames again. The ice is in her chest now. She can feel it creeping closer to her heart. She wants the anger back. Her anger. Why would he be angry with her?

Does he hate her? She can no longer feel her heart beating— the ice has done its job. It is after her throat now, climbing higher and higher. What would it feel like to throw up shards of Ice? Nevermind, she does not want to know. She had wanted to scream before. She had wanted to burn the kingdom down with her voice and words and screams. Now she cannot even whimper. Her tongue is frozen. Her knees hit the floor— she does not feel it. Maybe it does not even happen, maybe her eyes are just frozen now and playing tricks on her. They make her feel as though she is falling— pull the ground from under her and send her vision spinning— but perhaps she is still standing. Still following. Still invisible.

Why would he hate her?

She watches as feet pass by her, heels and boots of all colors all slowing when they cross her path. Well, maybe they are slowing. Maybe that is just her mind continuing to play tricks on her though. She would not be able to tell the difference right now— if there is one, that is. She cannot look past the soles of the shoes, cannot meet the eyes of those passing her. She is stuck— her neck which was so hot only moments ago now stiff. To think that a simple thought could send her reeling in such a grand way as to literally floor her. It is almost impressive, actually. If she could feel anything other than the crushing, ice cold weight on her shoulders then perhaps she would laugh.

To think that a nameless, faceless man could make her feel such torrential and devastating emotions. Anger and sadness. Longing and desperation. It is unreal the things he makes her feel. Otherworldly things. Impossible, tragic, wonderful things. There is no way that any of it is real. She must be losing her mind. She wishes she was losing her mind. Her chest zaps where the emerald ring hits her sternum, tied to a thin strap of leather around her neck, the ice melting for a fraction of a second. It taps against her skin as her hands meet the marble floor, a gentle reminder that this— he— is real. Gods. A measure of the anger sparks back up and this time she knows that it is entirely her own.

When she was a little girl she used to watch the dust devils in her neighbours corn field. Her father would watch with her sometimes. One of those times he explained what was happening. He told her that wind only spirals like that when the cold air meets the hot air. When that happens— and the temperatures collide— they begin to fight. Imagine them like two rivals, her father had said. The cold air grabs the hot air’s hair. In turn the hot air kicks out at the cold air’s knees. They keep doing that— kicking and shoving and biting and pulling— until finally their limbs are but a blur. That is all a dust devil is, my girl— two rivals fighting. She had not thought to ask him what happens when the cold air and the hot air are not rivals— she had not thought to ask what would happen if the hot air and the cold air were actually lovers. Would the same thing happen? Those little dust devils? Would it be better?

Would it be worse?

Much like most things in her life, she does not know the answer to that. All she knows is that she can feel the air— be them rivals or lovers— punching and kicking, kissing and touching, in her chest and it hurts. All she knows is that if he is real then he better come and get her right now before her body caves to the icy fire tornado that is swirling in her lungs. She is going to implode.

“My dear—” a warm hand lands on her shoulder and it is like magic the way her thoughts are silenced, leaving behind nothing but a harsh ringing in her ears— “are you alright? That was quite the spill you just took.”

Whoever is speaking to her has a voice that is like honey and silk. It wraps around her, soothing every ache in her weary body. The hand rubs a circle into her shoulder, not letting her go, and she begins to thaw, the ice around her eyes and throat and heart melting away in seconds. Not back to the anger— no, that is long gone, a mere thought in the back of her mind— but instead to a new feeling. She is neither ice nor fire— she is springtime. She is warm and calm, her fingers flexing against the marble like small creatures emerging from hibernation. She curls them a few times, relishing in the blood as it returns to her hands and the way it does not feel as though it is burning her. It is not fire, it is just blood.

“Do you think you can get up?” The soft voice is right next to her ear now and she closes her eyes for a moment. It sounds so familiar— so gentle. She never thought she would hear that voice again. “I think maybe we should go to the healers— just in case, my dear.”

She can smell it now— the yeast. The berries. She takes a deep breath in and she can taste the strawberry jam on her lips like she is eight years old again. Her father used to always sneak her an extra pastry after dinner. They would split it on the back porch, their fingers sticky and their laughter twisting into the twilight. Her mother must have known— she was meticulous. She was so aware of the things around her at all times. She was beautiful and kind and made the best jam in the entire realm.

“Mother?” The word slips off her tongue instinctively. Naturally. She cannot stop it because, for a moment, it is as though she is right next to the woman she misses most. It is as though everything is okay again.

Y/n lifts her head— she finally can, her neck is no longer stiff with ice— her eyes landing on a woman with flowing golden hair that twists and curls against her chest. It is not her mother. Her chest squeezes. She knows that it should not— it was never going to be her mother and she knows that— but she cannot help but feel deflated. If there was ever a time for a miracle it would be right now. Preferably a miracle that makes the best strawberry pastries and gives hugs that feel like taking a warm bath. She shakes her head lightly, clearing the thought and the mist that has begun to gather in her eyes. It is not the time for sentimentality.

The woman— the woman who is not her mother— has soft blue eyes— iridescent almost— that bore into her own. There is a ring around her pupils where the blue turns to a darker coal. For a moment it looks like the ring is pulsing. The longer Y/n looks into her eyes the deeper she falls into them. It does not feel as much like drowning as one would think. It is a softer kind of falling— it is as though the woman can see every inch of her soul with a simple look. Her aroma strengthens, changing slightly. The yeast is no longer present— that was only ever her imagination— and now there is a strong, flowery scent. It is strangely intoxicating.

She has to blink a few times, turning away for a taste of fresh air, her gaze falling to the woman’s flowing silk gown. It is a delicate ivory number with beautiful embroidery all over the bust. Little flowers. Perhaps that is where the scent is coming from, wafting off the garden around her collarbone. She really is springtime.

The woman laughs and the flowers sway, moved by a breeze of breath and glee. “Oh my darling, I think you just confirmed my thoughts. Let's get you up, alright? See if we can find someone to take a look at you. Your head must be pounding.”

She is like an oasis in the desert. Y/n has never been to the desert but still— this is what she imagines it would feel like. Gentle and easy, like a cool breeze or a patch of shade. It would feel like the soothing touch of this woman’s hands as she pulls her body from its heap on the ground, wrapping an arm around her waist to keep her from toppling right over again. Her legs feel unstable and her knees are shaking but everything is okay. But oasis’ are just figments of the imagination— or at least this one is. They are doomed to fizzle away eventually, taking with them the joyful shade and leaving behind the scorching heat.

As the golden woman begins to turn with her, no doubt pulling her in the direction of the supposed healers, there is an ear piercing screech.

“There you are! You were supposed to be following us you dense child.” Estrid is in front of Y/n in seconds, her narrowed eyes locked on her and the familiar, gut wrenching sneer on her scarlet lips. “It is like you never listen on purpose— you just mill about in your own little world. Always about Y/n, never about anyone else.”

The fire from before— the scorching heat— begins bubbling in the pit of her stomach. It splashes like tar, slowly coating her insides in that all consuming hate. She bites her tongue, clenching her jaw. She can still feel the woman’s hand on her shoulder. There is still a piece of the oasis and she clings to it. But even that is being consumed— the touch melting into the lightning in her veins. She is definitely going to explode.

Her step mother takes a step towards her but halts, her eyes darting to the floor where they stay for a long moment. When her neck snaps back up she is positively fuming. “You dropped our things! Why you ungrateful little brat, I—”

In less than the blink of an eye she is no longer looking at her step mother but rather at the back of a blonde head, her hand laced with a hand so soft she would think it an evening glove.

“This young woman has tripped.” The blonde woman’s voice is calm still but holds no more of that gentle tread. Her hand squeezes softly, a contrast to her firm tone. “I will be escorting her to the healers to see what has happened.”

Estrid blinks, her eyes darting away from Y/n and up to the new woman. When she does her entire face goes pale, as though she has seen a ghost. How odd.

“Your Majesty.” Estrid bows her head, her knees bending slightly in a curtsy.

Your Majesty? Y/n’s eyes drift back to the gown— the marvelous ivory silk. It is as though all the little details begin appearing in that moment. The high thread count, the intricate stitching at the waist and bodice, the gemstone bracelet on her dainty wrist. That bracelet alone must be worth more than her entire life. Sapphires and rubies and emeralds. She wears it as though she has no idea how much it is worth— as though she has no idea it is even there at all. She wears it as though she is royalty and she has many more of them in her room.

Oh no— no, no, no.

The blonde woman turns back to her, her crystal eyes softening marginally from what she can only imagine was an icy stare moments ago. “Come on, dear. I will take you to my healer.”

Y/n shakes her head, her eyes wide. Her spine aches as she does. Her mouth feels like it is filled with cotton. She cannot speak but she has to. She has to refuse.

“No, no, your Majesty—” She copies Estrid’s greeting, she does not know what else to call her— “I am alright, truly. I do not wish to burden you further. I will—” She pauses, woozy all of a sudden, the salty breeze ten times stronger— “I will be fine.”

The woman’s crystal eyes narrow but not in the sharp way her step mother’s usually do. “My child, I insist. You do not look well.”

Y/n can practically feel Estrid’s stare burrowing into the side of her face. She can feel the bruises on her back— perhaps purple, perhaps yellow. It does not matter. If she does not go now then they will surely be black in an hour. Less. There it is— there is the fear she had been missing. She wobbles slightly on her feet. The salt air mingles with the pine trees. It is intoxicating— it is deadly. She is going to pass out if she does not move. She shakes her head at the woman, hoping there is something in her eyes that conveys the danger she feels.

“I am alright,” even she can hear the pleading tone in her voice. “Please.”

The woman— the Queen— stares at her for a moment. It is only a few seconds, the coal ring around her pupils pulsing gently, but it feels like days. It feels like a lifetime. She purses her rosy lips, taking a deep breath.

A hand— one much more rough and hot— wraps around her other wrist. “Your Majesty—” Estrid’s nasally voice is high pitched, like she is attempting to hide her cruel intentions— “my daughter just needs to sleep I think. I can take over from here.”

Y/n forces a smile to her lips— one that tastes like metal and blood— like betrayal— hoping it is enough to convince the queen. She adds a little nod in there for good measure. It is all about appearances. For a moment she thinks it is actually going to work. The Queen’s shoulders sag gently, her chin dipping down in a partial nod. It is actually working— maybe she will not get punished too harshly. She will pick up the bags and hurry to their room and stay as silent as a mouse and everything will be fine. Right?

Estrid squeezes her wrist harder— enough to make her bones whine in pain— and she can feel the on her face grin falter. It is for only a fraction of a second, the corner of her lips peeling down in a grimace that she cannot suppress, but it is enough. By the time she has painted the fake smile back on her face the Queen is at her side, that silky hand curling around her shoulder, gentle but firm enough to pull her away from her step mother. Y/n does not know if she would rather thank her or cry.

“I am afraid I truly must insist. As a Queen—” She stresses the word, her title. This is no longer a suggestion; it is an order— “it is my duty to ensure that all my guests are properly taken care of. It will not take long; just a quick check up.”

The Queen’s hand ushers her a couple steps down the hallway. Estrid follows, her brows pulled together dramatically. “But your Highness, I—”

The Queen holds up her hand, an elegant and dangerous gesture, her kind face cracking under the weight of her furious eyes. She does not even try to conceal the rage swimming in the crystal pools. She does not have to— she will face no repercussion for her anger.

“But nothing. She is to go with me and that is final.” Her burning crystals glance down to the bags, all of which are still spilling over onto the marble, draping the stone with bits of lace and silk, none of which look nearly as exquisite as the Queen’s gown. “I will send someone to gather your belongings and return them to your chambers. Now, if you will kindly excuse us.”

With that she is spinning, pressing her hand gently against Y/n’s back and leading her back in the direction she had come from. She can feel Estrid’s glare on her neck, burning holes in the back of her head. If stares were able to kill then she would be laying in a heap on the marble again, she just knows it. Soon, though, they turn a corner and she can no longer feel her step mother’s lethal gaze. That does not stop her heart from racing so hard that she wonders if it will jump out of her chest. It does not stop the vomit from pooling in her throat. She should feel relieved—grateful— but all she can think about is the pain. Both the pain she is in now and the pain she will be in later.

“It was okay really,” she mutters. It is a last ditch effort, one that is destined to fail before it is even out of her mouth, but she has to try anyway. “I am okay. I think I just slipped.”

She did not slip— she lost it. She does not know quite what it is but she knows whatever it is has been lost. Her sanity. Her grip on reality. Her damn mind. Any and all of them, now gone.

The queen stops, turning her bright blue eyes on her once more. She sighs, her smile understanding. “I think if you had slipped then you would have gotten back up.”

The Queen’s tone is pitying, her fingers gentle on her hand, and Y/n drops her eyes to the ground. She resents it— all of it. She does not want pity. “I needed a moment is all.”

A hand presses under her chin, bringing her gaze back up. There is no more smile on the Queen’s face— only a firmness in her eyes. She does not look so much like a Queen here; she looks like a mother. Her mother. She can see some of her own mother in the faint lines near her eyes and the cupid's bow above her rose petal lips. She has to bite down to keep the ache from her throat at bay.

“That was not a moment, my dear. I was there. That was quite a few moments. You were ready to let those girls trample you, were you not?”

“I— I just—” she swallows hard, trying to make her words work. It seems like she cannot string a sentence together for the life of her. Like her entire vocabulary has vanished— “I needed a moment, your Majesty. That is all.” All she can do is repeat herself.

The Queen narrows her eyes, her thumb smoothing over her jaw before she finally releases her. “Frigga.”

Y/n’s heart stutters and she has to cover her cough from the way all the air whooshes out of her lungs. “Pardon me, your Majesty?”

“Please, call me Frigga.”

This time her heart does not just stutter; it stops completely. She presses a hand against her chest, taking a tiny step backwards. She cannot breathe again. The smile on the Queen’s— Frigga’s— face is too kind. Too gentle. Too much. This is not a trick, she is not trying to get her in trouble. She is not telling her to shut up or to hurry up or to grow up. She is just being kind. No one is kind to her. Not even when they want something from her. What could the Que— Frigga, Y/n, her name is Frigga— possibly want from her? What could she give her that would mean anything more than what she already has? She sucks in a breath, sounding quite like a dying animal in the middle of the thankfully empty corridor. It is too much— it is all too much.

“No, I could not. You Maj—”

Frigga grabs her hand again, her warm skin stilling her own, clammy hands. “Calm child. It is alright. You are alright” Her words are slow, her tone a low murmur. It works wonders on her nerves. It is magic. “Frigga. Please, nobody here calls me anything formal. You should hear my sons.” The side of her mouth quirks up, her tone becoming teasing, “mother, where is father? That is all anyone around here says to me. I am not used to such formalities. I would prefer Frigga, my dear.”

Y/n takes another breath, nodding her head.

“Y/n—” she whispers back, not sure what else to do besides introduce herself back— “my name is Y/n.”

Frigga’s smile grows, nodding as well. She makes it feel like this is a normal exchange— like they are just two new friends meeting for the first time. “That is a lovely name.”

The Queen turns after that, pulling her once more to continue walking down the grand hallway. They move in silence, Frigga no doubt trying to give her some room to breathe. It is surprisingly easy to just be there with her. It is serene. She stares out past the pillars as they walk, her eyes dipping back to the faraway shoreline. Now the water is sparkling in the high afternoon sun, the cresting waves catching the light and bouncing it back and forth amongst each other. It is as though each wave that passes winks at her before smoothing against the sand. She cannot tell if they are saying hello or goodbye. Perhaps neither. Perhaps they are just acknowledging that she is there. She bows her chin gently, acknowledging them as well.

She does not know how long they walk for, her attention too focused on the blinking shore, but soon Frigga is pulling open a heavy wooden door— one that has the most intricate carvings on it’s frame that Y/n longs to stare at in depth—and tugging her in behind her. She has no idea what she is expecting— maybe a herb closet and a long table for practicing healing— it is a healer’s closet after all— but whatever it is, what she sees is not it. She is not expecting the most exquisite room in all of existence.

The first thing her eyes fall to is a wonderfully large pool of water sitting in the middle of the room. It must be the size of her entire bedroom, which granted is not that large but in comparison to her own tiny tin basin at home this is pure luxury. The sides of the pool are golden and tiled with colorful gemstones. She cannot even name all them, not recognizing half of the stones. They catch the light pouring in from the expansive balcony, sparkling against each other. There are steps leading up the side, promising entry into the luscious looking water. Altogether it is hypnotizing, calling her name until she is taking a few stuttered steps towards it. As she gets closer she can smell the fragrant oils, much more rich than anything she is used to.

“Oh my.”

“It is quite something, I will admit.” Frigga laughs from behind her, meeting her next to the edge of the tub. She dips her hand into the water, submerging the expensive bracelet in the water without a care. “It was a present from Odin for our first anniversary. I was just as shocked. I did not leave this room for weeks. I even slept here, can you imagine that?”

“I think I would as well, if I were you. It is stunning.” She, too, dips her hand below the water. She almost gasps at how warm it is— at how soft the water is. “I have never seen anything like it.”

Frigga pulls her hand from the water, shaking the droplets lightly from her skin. She turns back to Y/n, her crystal eyes sparkling with joy. “Perhaps later— only if you would like, of course— you could try it.”

Her mouth falls open, her own hand, still swirling through the silky water, pausing. “Oh no, your Maj—” Frigga purses her lips, her eyes crinkling gleefully— “Frigga, I could not.”

The Queen laughs again and she can hear the way her own mother used to giggle. “Of course you can my dear. In fact, you must! But first let us eat.”

Y/n’s brows pull together— what about the healers? Is that not why she is here?

Frigga must notice her confusion because she lifts her hand to her face, the Queen’s fingers now scented like rose petals. “I have found that the best medicine is a full belly, would you not agree?”

Instantly the tears well up in her eyes again. They are not from sadness this time— nor from longing— instead they are from the relief she feels coursing through her body. It is so foreign that she does not recognize it at first. It is neither hot nor cold. There is no pressure on her chest alerting her to it. In fact there is nothing. She feels nothing. It is exhilarating.

She does not notice the first tear fall until Frigga’s thumb catches it. “Thank you.”

The Queen sighs, her smile faltering. It is still there but barely. “Come, child.”

Y/n follows Frigga to the balcony, passing under some gem coloured curtains and into the warm sunlight. She almost freezes in her tracks, the memory of the last time her back was in the sun still fresh on her mind. Her mind falls back to the man, her nose filling with salt and pine which leaks in from the gardens below. She can feel his hands on her back, crawling over her hips. She does not wonder what color her back is this time— be it purple or yellow or molten red— it does not matter anymore. For some reason the thought of him makes it not matter anymore. He makes it better.

Frigga turns on her heel, her eyes lighting up, her hands shooting out to grasp Y/n’s shoulders. It is all she can do not to reel back from the suddenness of the action, wobbling slightly but smiling. She, in turn, reaches for the Queen’s hands, steadying herself on her silken skin.

“I completely forgot my dear, I told my son to meet me here for afternoon tea. You do not mind, do you?”

Y/n’s breath catches in her throat, her memories surging again. She can taste him on her lips for a brief moment. A short, silly moment. She pushes him down, shaking her head lightly to clear her thoughts. That would be impossible.

“No, of course not this is your home.”

Frigga squeezes her shoulders. “Wonderful!”

As the blonde woman releases her, moving to sit in one of the golden chairs on the balcony, there is a voice that sounds from the door. It is deep, impossibly so, and sends shivers racing down her spine.

“Mother, are you in here?”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Tag list: @crystal-siren

[peachpitfics]

Culinary Chaos

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Request: Yes

“ Teaching Spencer how to cook and him being all pouty when it doesn't turn out great so the reader comforts him and makes him feel better🥺”

Summary: Spencer meets your Parents and invites them for dinner at his apartment, knowing full well he can’t cook. Even with your help, he still manages to ruin dinner. Luckily, Dad’s got him covered.

Length: 1.3k

Characters: Spencer Reid, Reader, Reader’s Mother & Father

Content Warnings: Curse words

A/N: Hiiii, this probably wasn’t what you were asking for, but its sweet and it’s what fell out of my brain today... I hope you enjoy it :) xx

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Instant regret filled Spencer’s body as he realized what he’d done. Dating for 6 months, you had introduced your boyfriend to your parents at a family dinner they had invited him to. With your background, your Father had cooked this beautiful meal, enjoyed by everyone, but especially Spencer. There was nothing he loved more than home cooked food. You guessed it was because of how he grew up...

And that’s where Spencer decided to invite your parents for dinner, at his apartment, on Saturday night.

As soon as you left and got into your car, Spencer lost it. He frantically ran his hands through his hair and jittered his leg around. Anxiety not only filled his stomach, but yours too. “Why did I do that?” His voice shook. “Because you’re a nice person, and you wanted to make a good impression” You nodded. “Uh huh, yeah, well” You could tell that the higher his voice got, the more he was panicking, “I don’t even own pots and pans” The dread washed over him as he realized he wasn’t capable of making anything that wasn’t coffee or toast.

You wanted to laugh but didn’t want to further embarrass him. Spencer was quiet from there until you got to his apartment. You tried to converse with him, but all he could do was be in his head and bounce his leg up and down. Spencer led you into his apartment, his pace quicker than normal. Before you knew it, he was tearing his kitchen apart, while you sat and watched on in utter surprise. Spencer didn’t half ass things, he always gave it 100% and more often than not, he was successful.

“You need to stop panicking” You said sternly, finally having had enough of this chaotic Spencer. “What am I going to do?!” He near on shouted, frustrated with himself. You approached him, taking him into your arms and holding onto him as tightly as possible. After a minute, he finally melted. You could feel his energy shift. You rubbed your hand up the length of his back, “I’m going to help you, if you would just calm down” You giggled.

When you parted, he was softer, slower. That frantic energy had dissipated. You helped him put his kitchen wares back in the cupboards and decided what he was going to make for dinner. You were going to keep it simple, with a roast beef and vegetables. Something you knew your parents liked & something you could cook, so you could teach Spence. When you explained the logistics and wrote a shopping list together, he calmed and was much happier.

 ——————- Saturday Afternoon ———————

 The shopping was done, Spencer was prepared, and you had brought a baking dish from your apartment for the roast. He had started on the vegetables, Spencer’s concentration through the roof. You stood behind him, lovingly wrapping your arms around his middle and drawing in his scent from the back of his shirt. You planted small kisses on his back and ran your hands down his sides. But Spencer ignored you, he kept peeling and chopping vegetables. “You’re staring at those carrots as if they’re going to run away” You whispered up to him. “They might if you keep distracting me” He chuckled. More time passed, more time where you were not the center of his attention and it was bugging you. Now he was preparing the meat. He was doing everything exactly how you told him. When you were finally fed up with being ignored, you decided to take your shower and get dressed for dinner. Your parents would be here in about an hour, and Spencer was already ready. He’d been ready for hours, perpetually worrying he was going to mess something up.

You came back to the kitchen, smoke billowing out of the oven into Spencer’s face. “I’ve been gone 45 minutes, all you had to do was let it sit?!” You exclaimed, watching him hurricane right back into chaos. “Babe, what’s going?” You asked, now frantic yourself. “The fucking meat is on fire” Spencer’s voice was high and scratchy, his stress filled the room much like a smoke. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Spencer donned odd oven mitts and pulled the baking dish from the oven, a medium sized fire spread across the whole of the meat, engulfing it. Spencer dropped the baking dish into the sink, throwing a tea towel over the top of, hoping to smother it out. An enormous crack rang out, the baking dish breaking in half over the heat.

You took it upon yourself to open all the windows and waved one of Spence’s jumper around to sweep the smoke out of the apartment. Once it was clearer to see in the kitchen, you went back to check on Spencer. He sat against the counter where the sink was, elbows on his knees and hands over his face. “This... is a disaster” He mumbled sadly. You took a seat next to him, linking your arm around his and kissed him on his arm. “Ah, it’s not so bad” You smiled, “It’ll be a funny story one day”. “Not today, it’s not funny today” He grumbled, “Your parents are going to be here any minute. My apartment is smoky, the charcoal ball in the sink is ruined and there’s nothing in the apartment for dinner” He almost began to laugh, but you were sure that was to keep from crying. Spencer wasn’t always this way in regard to failing; this particular meal was very important to him. He’d never been in contact with a partner’s parents before, so this was special.

You stood, reached your hand down to him. Pulling Spencer up, you reefed him into a bear hug. “Everything will be okay” You squeezed him tight, his chin resting on your head. You knew what your parents were like, they wouldn’t have ever held this against Spencer. The doorbell rang out, just what you needed. The kitchen was a mess, and the smoke hadn’t cleared, you didn’t want Spencer to be embarrassed. But he pulled up his metaphorical socks and answered the door. He shook your Fathers hand and kissed your Mothers cheek as they entered the apartment. You greeted them, watching their faces as they observed the chaos. “What’s happened here?” Your Father asked softly, walking into the kitchen, and lifting the tea towel in the sink. The black ball of burnt meat lay underneath. “Dear me” Y/F/n smiled. “Yeah... I... can’t cook” Spencer confessed. “It’s harder than it looks, isn’t it?” Your Mother hummed. She herself wasn’t a good cook. “That’s an understatement” The corners of Spencer’s mouth were twisted into a smile. “Can I give you some advice?” Y/F/n asked gently, not wanting to put him off trying again.

“Of course, Sir, please” Spencer approached the kitchen, excited to learn. Your mother and you stood in the entryway, watching on. “I assume this caught fire” Your Dad laughed, waving soft smoke out of his face, “Which means, your oven was too high and the fat caught fire. The oven then becomes a furnace and suddenly, bam! You’ve lost your roast” Y/F/n chuckled. “So, next time I should do it on a lower heat for longer?” Spencer asked gingerly. “Oh Absolutely, that way is better anyway, it cooks nicer. I wouldn’t worry too much about this though, I set fire to a few before I got a good one, didn’t I darling?” Y/F/n turned back to your Mother and laughed. She nodded along, chuckling herself. Spencer’s anxiety over the whole situation, disappeared. It was comforting for him knowing that even good cooks, like y/F/n, had catastrophes like this. “So, shall we order a pizza?” Y/M/n suggested. “Pizza this time, but next time, we do a roast. Together, I’ll show you how to get it perfect” Y/F/n draped his arm around Spencer’s shoulder, leading him to the living room to order that pizza.

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